Ours is The Mortal
by Filthy Weeabu Trash
Summary: See 'We Are The Chorus'
1. The Orphans I

AN/ **I REQUIRE SUSTENANCE BEFITTING MY GIRTHY BULK**

...

M43. 664

 **Crusade Designate:** Thanatine Crusade

 **Segmentum:** Obscurus.

 **Sector:** Charion

 **Subsector:** Amantium

 **System:** Mulvan

 **Planet:** Valtavyn

 **Status:** Under Siege. Beginning M43. 660

 **Defending Elements:** Heretic Forces of the Arch Enemy.

 **Attacking Elements:** Combined Imperial Crusade Forces.

 **Forces Present-**

 **Imperial Guard:**

Jantine Praetorians; 5 regiments.

Vostroyan Bluebloods; 3 regiments

Calibrian Linebreakers; 1 regiment

Penal Legions; 10 regiments worth

 **Adeptus Astartes:**

Sons of Medusa; one company.

Disciples of Caliban; one company

Suns Descendants; half company

Griffons Rage; quarter-company

 **Adeptus Sororitas:**

Order of the Ebon Chalice; 2 Preceptories.

Order of the Valiant Heart; 2 Preceptories.

 **Questor Imperialis:**

House Hawkshield; 3 Knights.

Freeblade; 1 knight.

 **Imperial Inquisition:**

Redacted.

…

M43.644.286

Not a bang, not a whimper, a slow, bleeding groan that stretches into the ever-malignant uncertainty of the future.

This is how an empire dies. Slowly, marred in violence, subsisting only through the sacrifice of unnamed and unknown heroes who fight and die at the command of uncaring and distant lords.

Madmen, blind prophets, and accursed heretic demagogues all, made their hysteria known on cardinal worlds of the Imperium. Screaming dark names, apostate preachers roused their cults and filled the streets with their foul hymns in the claim that now was the time of Ending. As these prophets burned at the stake, they would still say that the manifest destiny of mankind has become bitter and ashen, that The Shattering had seen to the death of all, that their dark gods would at last have their fill.

For the sin of speaking against mankind's dominion, pyres across the Imperium are erected, and purifying flames send these heathens to the afterlife to be judged before the God Emperor. It is only in truth, that despite its blasphemous portents, the cold kernel of doubt remains in the heart of the faithful.

Never before has the Imperium been so weakened- not even after the great heresy. Never before, has the Emperors light been so dark and distant- the shining beacon at the head of the throne world nothing more than a faint ember. Once thought limitless, the ranks of the Imperial guard now dwindle. The strength of the Astarte's; once thought indomitable more akin to a blunted sword coated in rust. The Sisterhood of the Sororitas, a bastion of peerless faith, finds a dark needle of blasphemous uncertainty lacing its thread through their tapestries of devotion. The venerable hulls of the Imperial Navy are as scarred and broken as the battlefleets they are a part of, and the revered god-machines of the Adeptus Titanicus find their maniples under strength and under supplied.

The once unstoppable might that was thought to be the Imperium of Man has been broken. It was shattered. It all came to its end upon the day Abbadon launched his thirteenth and final crusade. And although it can be readily said that the Imperium did not break without its allotment of blood, the cost for defeating Abbadon the Despoiler once and for all was a price that has now crippled what little strength the Imperium had left. The borders are closing in, the shadows teem with xenos raiders, dark cults stir, and Ork warbands coalesce. Mankind has not the strength to weather another storm. The galaxy does not care. The waters begin to rise.

…

It was a world of blue and green. Now torn and scarred, its skies are now alight with ash and fire. It was a once noble planet. It's People bent towards production and humility, its rulers humble and kind.

Its prosperous lands, tilled by the peasantry lived quietly under the guidance of a single grand monarchy, it's holds spanned across the singular equatorial landmass of the largely aquatic planet.

In the times before, in the days of the great crusade, it was brought into the imperial fold from the depths of old night. It's saviors came from the void, their heraldry that of a wolf. They were the Luna Wolves, with the favored son of the emperor, Horus Lupercal at their head. It was this cursed history that would lead to their ruin. A schism grew within the monarchy as these old tales were rediscovered, the days of founding. Recidivists saw to the usurpation of the king and queen, and the installment of their own puppet lords that cried the name of Horus towards the sky in adulation, braying for their master to show them the truth of his ways.

Deep roots of corruption, born from these howling madmen, rose to the surface and made known their unholy growths. They summoned up dark magicks that hid away the sun, and they carpeted fields with rotting black flags, each one painted with a singular blood red eye that leered up at the cosmos in calling. Dark runes were carved into innocent flesh, the still beating hearts of these victims torn out and sacrificed upon crimson alters bespoken of grand and eternal war. The gods of the warp- fickle and malicious granted a portion of their favor to this damned world. Heretic prognosticators screamed of dark glory to be gained, of a return of Chaos Triumphant in the conquering of this defenseless systems bereft of men and ships, this dark promise of hope drew forth the Warbands and Renegades, lost without the protection afforded by The Eye of Terror. So it was made so, that upon the eighth day of genuflection unto the dark name of Horus and his legacy of treachery, that the sky above Valtavyn was turned black by the millions of war-scarred landing ships dyed red by a gore-hued sun.

Valtavyn fell first; it fell long before even the first survivor of The Shattering set foot upon its fields, the land already sewn with chaos and heresy by the feudal warlords that now vied for control of its grand central cathedral. The system of Mulvan fell and from Mulvan, the ramshackle warband of a thousand destitute cults and traitors and legions and warbands turned their attentions to the sub-sector and conquered its several hundred worlds in the name of the dark gods. With this great boon of slaves and resources, this cursed stretch of subsystems now decreed itself the Apostates Lash. This cull of hedonists and murderers turned its claws to the entire sector, and skewered through the meager defense flotillas that were not drawn from to defend the Caidian Gate from the mutual destruction wrought of the disastrous 13th.

The Apostates Lash was a collection of the desperate and the weak; for the conquering of this swath of once imperial territory was not out of strength, it was out of desperation. The Eye of Terror, once a haven for the madmen of chaos, was in turmoil. Discord within the Eye of Terror was nothing new, it was a realm of Chaos and so it was naturally chaotic and inclined to the whim of the dark gods. After the Shattering, this changed. The balance of power had shifted unequivocally, the Great Game of the Chaos Gods had been turned on its head, and within the warp did great armies of daemons clash against each other in a manner never seen before. There had been a deception, a trick, a gambit that not even Tzeentch had foreseen had been enacted by the Dread Anathema. Of what he had done, of what he had stolen from under their noses that had incited the chaos gods in such a manner none can say, but its effects were manifest in the absence of daemonic incursions- if only for a moment. The Imperium and its learned few knew nothing of this, for all they knew, nothing had changed and the forces of the arch enemy were as strong as ever. And it was so, that even when battered and weary, The Imperium gathered what was left of its strength.

The Great Crusade saw to the gatherings of the greatest number of imperial forces ever imagined. The Emperor and his sons oversaw the mustering of billions of ships and their countless trillions of soldiers, serfs, and servants.

In the dark days after the Heresy but before the shattering, crusading fleets under the guidance of Warmasters saw to the reconquering of imperial territory lost to the countless enemies of mankind. Still, these conquests were but pale shadows of the numbers seen during the Great Crusade. Though a shadow in comparison, they were still mighty, they were unstoppable gatherings of imperial strength, the resources of an entire galaxy-wide emperor condensed and distributed for one, singular purpose in the destruction of an enemy, the Imperial war machine was both unrelenting and unstoppable.

In the darkness after The Shattering, what now served as an Imperial Crusade was nothing more than a ragged band of those with power enough to fight. The back of the Imperium was broken, even a few dozen battlefleets was almost too much to ask for, and several hundred dozen regiments almost unmanageable, to say nothing about Astartes, Titans, Knights, and Sororitas. The losses the Imperium suffered during those dark decades were said to rival those seen during only the Horus Heresy.

A crusade against the Apostates Lash was not wanted, nor was it needed. The renegades of the Lash were crippled, and tired. They were exhausted and depleted. Their ships were barley held together wrecks without the means to repair them, their supplies were so depleted that those traitor astartes among them had resorted to using repurposed PDF weapons in most cases. The several desolate forge worlds they had captured were nothing more than skeletons, and the supply worlds among them were barren. The realm of the apostates lash had neither the means nor the resources to be of any immediate threat to the imperium. If given at least six centuries to gather slaves and allow the dark mechanicus to man the forge worlds and gather resources, then maybe the Lash would pose a threat, and if the masters of the lash were of such right-mindedness, than maybe they would agree to stay their hand for the moment.

Imperium and Lash both smelled the blood in the void, the blood of each other. They wanted the fight to end. Both wanted the Long War to finally be over.

The remnants of Chaos prepared its defenses, the broken armies of the Imperium made ready for one last war.

…

There is a soldier, an Imperial Guardsman, his armor is in tatters and his equipment is dented, burnt, and chipped. His body is battered and his ears are bleeding. He is filthy with mud and smeared with soot and shit. His scarred, torn up and worn face is smeared with a look of grim petulance, and despite a split lip and freely bleeding gash in his cheek, he does not seem aware of the pain. He is fighting to survive, in a blood-drenched pit. The guardsman thrashes, fighting tooth and nail, clawing at his enemy, grappling for control of his opponent's weapon. Entangled with him is an equally dirty man, but his filth seeps from the soul. Covered in ritual brands and scarred with devotionals towards dark powers, a Heretic with exposed muscles and animal furs stitched to his own skin snarls at the guardsman with peeled back lips. The Guardsman currently has the advantage, but only barley. He struggles to pin the cultists face down beneath him, trying to force the lunatics head below the murky loam at the bottom of the crater they find themselves embattled within. It is an ugly brawl, brutish and uncivilized, both of them snarling in contempt for the other. Within its pure animosity, it is perfectly _human_ by way of virtue.

The Guardsman punches, torn up knuckles driving into the back heretic's skull before he forces the cultists down again, trying to keep the sigil-scarred mans head just under the brackish water long enough for him to lose strength and drown. Seething with equal parts hate and desperation, the guardsman wraps an arm rippling with muscle around the cultist's neck and squeezes. He struggles to keep the cultist pinned; the wild thrashing nearly throws him off, and his gurgled screams ring in his ears. The Guardsman grits his teeth, trying to force the man back down as he surges upwards with a burst of strength and throws him off. It is only a second after that the heretic is falling upon the guardsman with an ecstatic, gleeful shriek.

Chipped and dirty fingernails claw at the Guardsman's face, digging into flesh as the enemy wraps his hands around the guardsman's neck, crazed like some pestilent beast. Choking for air, the soldier kicks upwards, trying to dislodge the fiend even as another salvo of artillery hammers down from the sky itself. The cataclysmic crashing shakes the world, beating his eardrums into deafness. The Guardsman feels himself weakening, his pulse screams in his head. The heretic squeezes tighter, grunted slurs and oaths spill from his blood filled mouth, spitting out of his stitched-open lips.

The Imperial soldier reaches around him, plying the murky loam with desperate fingers until at last fortune favors him and his hand scrapes over a familiar shape. With an unheard prayer he brings up the mud-slick revolver from the loam and plants the barrel squarely under the heretics chin.

He pulls the trigger before the cultist can move to bat it away, the cylinder turns, and a burst of heat lances through the skull of the cultist. The lasbeam burns through meat and bone, incinerating the brain in a split instant that sees to gore spilling out from eye sockets, dribbling out of the cultists nose and mouth, splattering across the guardsman's face. The body falls limp atop the guardsman; blinking rapidly, trying to clear his eyes of the heat flash, he breathes through his nose, trying to wipe the vile gore of the cultist off of him. He can taste charred bits of skull and hair in his mouth, along with even viler substance- he nearly vomits. He shoves the corpse off him, letting it slip down into the murk- forgotten and damned.

He struggles to stand as the world is shattered again as yet another bracketing salvo of high-explosive shells smashes into the ground around his deep, waterlogged shelter. Any semblance of the once pristine farmlands was being torn away with each barrage as traitor and imperial batteries dueled each other from entrenched positions miles away. The guardsman seems to ignore all of this like it was a rainstorm. He leans back against the side of the crater; he tries to wipe the mud and guts and bits of heretic from his face and only succeeds in smearing them across his blunt and tired features even more. He gives up, and instead focuses on his weapon. Only now realizes how out of breath he is, how heavy he is breathing. He vomits weakly; half digested rations spewing down the front of his flak vest. He wipes his mouth and fumbles his lasweapon in shaking hands- he had thought himself rid of the shakes years ago.

The muddy revolver is cold in his grip; he swings out the cylinder and removes the spent microlas capsule, exchanging it with a fresh one. The weapon held only six shots, but each shot was enough to punch clean through carapace armor, the person inside it, and out the back with still a considerable amount of energy remaining. He thumbs the grip; he feels the engravings that press into his skin, they comfort him, they remind him of home. Satisfied that it would not fail him, he then slides it back into its holster. He takes a moment to shut his eyes, silence the daemons in his head and stop his legs from shaking like a frakking newblood conscript before a charge.

His name is Hastis; he is an Acolyte of the inquisition.

Across from him, coughing and half conscious- his world spinning from a concussion, and his brains rattled from the brutal shelling that sent them reeling through the air and into this wretched pit of heretics, was another guardsman, strapped to his back was a heavy set of Vox equipment. Heaving, struggling to breathe with almost a quarter of his face torn up from shrapnel. The front of his flak vest is shredded; it likely saved his life. Grabbing the guardsman by the shoulders, Hastis hauls him up, steadying him; he methodically begins tearing the worst of the shrapnel from the ruined side of the guardsman's face. He ignores when the Vox carrying guardsman heaves, coughing up chunks of dirt and mud that splatter across Hastis' face, Hastis simply holds him straight.

The guardsman's eyes clear, panic fading as he begins to breathe in the ash and soot of a battlefield. The Hastis grabs him again, this time rolling him over, looking at the bulky vox backpack he is wearing, tracing the wires that lead to a helmet, and slamming it back onto the guardsman's head. "Are you with me?" Hastis asks, the simple question is enough to pull his friend into focus.

The guardsman coughs again, finally finding his balance. Blood still runs freely from the savaged right side of his face, his helmet is askew, its strap broken, torn clean off by the shrapnel. The guardsman wipes the mud from his eyes. Hastis leans in, grabs the radioman by the sides of his helmet; he forces him to look him in the eye. "Can you walk?"

Pausing, blinking, the radioman nods his head, not saying anything yet, just closing his eyes and trying to breathe as he steadies himself, trying to force his way through the shellshock. He manages to spit out a few words regardless, "Bastards." He coughs. "Facking Heretics… Facking…shelled their own position."

His name is Lagorn. Inquisitorial Adjutant and Vox Technician.

Hastis smacks the side of Lagorns helmet and nods grimly. He has a new priority; reaching down, searching through the mud and the blood he rolls over a corpse, and finds a rifle still in its dead grip. He pries off the fingers, and clears the mud from its workings. Standard M35 Lasrifle, Galaxy pattern. He checks the barrel, clearing any obstructions over the lenses, he then checks the powerpack and finds it half full.

He staggers through the mud, stumbling over dead bodies of heretics and guardsmen alike. He makes it over to the opposite side of the crater. He paws through the bodies until he finds one leaned up against the side, slumped over, half buried by filth. Ragged and gaunt features can be made out through the occluding viscera and shit covering its face. Hastis checks for a pulse- he almost seems angry when he finds one. Even so, he winds back with one arm- and strikes the man across the face.

Life seems to flow back into limbs. "Wake up, you bastard!" Hastis strikes the man again, shaking him; his teeth grit and contrasted against the murk and grime that was the rest of his visage. "Wake. Up." He hits the man again, this time striking him in the gut.

The man hiccups, gasping, and then beginning to shout. "Enough of that, I'm awake, damn you," Hastis strikes him once more- just to be sure. "Sin on the throne! Do you have to do that?"

"Just making sure, sir." Hastis lies, stepping back.

"I know if you're lying. Hastis." Inquisitor Hyork of the Ordos Hereticus, Lodge Militarum, coughs and stands, his black and red coat is covered with grime and mud. His wizened face is smeared with ash, and there is a deep cut across his scalp that still bleeds, trickling down over his face and into his beard. Only his electric grey-blue eyes are clear, although unfocussed.

"Are you injured at all?" Hastis spits. "Can you move?"

Hyork takes a moment to pat himself over, wincing several times as he shifts his weight, stumbling forwards, nearly falling into the loam. "I can move, just let me, just give me my-" Hastis reaches down into the muck, pulling free a long black cane of metal, its handle flecked with brass etchings, and forcefully gives the Inquisitor, it was ornamented with various sigils and seals, most prominent of all- despite being but a tiny emblem- was the inquisitorial I.

"Then move." Hastis doesn't wait for his superior, he glances over at Lagorn; the Voxman nods back and picks up his rifle- his landed not far from him. Hastis checks his own plundered rifle again as another volley of high explosive shells hammer home around them, despite the protection of the crater they were almost buried, it was fast becoming a dubious safety at best. "They'll bracket the lines with earthshakers soon. We have to push with the rest of the penals." Hastis looks skyward, trying to will his eyes into piercing the soot-stained sky as if he could see the procession of artillery barrages as they spear downwards from their apex.

Stumbling over to him, no amount of grime and mud keeping him from looking alien on such a brutal battlefield, Hyork grabbed Hastis by the shoulder. "That's suicide." He snaps, trying to steady himself with his ornate cane but unable to find purchase.

"Might not've been had the facked Astartes not botched their end of the deal." Hastis glares back at the Inquisitor and shrugs off Hyork's hand, "Your damned fault we're here in the first place." He says as he makes his way over to Lagorn, the vox-operator is checking over his equipment, the large backpack vox likely took damage from the brutal initial bombardment.

"Sir, the cables are good as gone, I need to repair it."

"Repair it in the trenches." Hastis grunts "On me." Digging his fingers into the sides of the crater, he hauls himself up, rolling over the lip and back into the war.

It was once a picturesque visage of a feudal world devoted to the God Emperor with hamlets and fields, small villages and townships with dirt roads all leading towards the grand central capital. This used to be one of those noble, humble fields where crops would be harvested, rolling plains of gently whispering golden stalks. On days of gravest, the farmers and children would take to these fields under beautiful clear blue skies with rolling clouds, felling the grain with scythes.

Now, the only thing felled on these fields of mud and gore was man.

"Move!" Hastis shouts over the tortured screams of dying men and the ripple of machinegun fire. Diving forwards into the mud as the screaming artillery barrage ripped through the sky and tore up the landscape behind them, the shockwave tears up the ground even further, and Hastis can feel the heat wash over his back as another cluster of shells hits, sending legionaries screaming into death. He grabs Hyork by the coat and drags him forwards with him, sprinting with hunched backs over spent casings and laspacks, Lagorn lands right beside him, a death grip on his rifle.

The dead are all around them, bodies surging across a ruined landscape, being turned into charred meat as lasers and bolts and bullets snap overhead. Olive drab shapes sprinting through the loam- heavy iron collars around their neck pulling them towards the distant trench line with electric shocks and threats of assured death. They hold rifles to their shoulders, holding down the trigger and spitting out lasbolts at fortified targets. They stumble over bodies, and crawl under razor wire; they use the dead for cover- only moving when the hideous beeping of their collars threatens them with death for their lack of forward momentum.

"Keep low!" Hastis growls, keeping a firm grip on Hyork, holding him down as they scramble across the battlefield. Hastis takes the lead, through filthy puddles and over burning debris of what may have once been farmhouses as the world shrieks again, another bombardment slamming down upon the field of battle. "Incoming!" Hastis screams diving forwards. Hastis covers his head, opens his mouth, and curls into a ball, behind him; Lagorn does the same, Hyork copying them only after a seconds pause.

It was Murder, this battle line. Hemmed in on either side by towering mountain ranges, a full three kilometers apart from each other, this singular pass was the only viable means of attacking into the fortress capital from behind. The ground before it was a hellish affair of static defenses and endless trenches pocketed with bunkers and mortar emplacements. Those mortars shouted constantly, only outspoken by the distant heretic artillery camps that thundered with devastating earth shaker munitions.

The Penal Legions were to storm the fortified mountain pass and force a break in the kilometer long line of bunkers and trenches that even three full days of imperial shelling could not break, and air support only balked at the triple-A emplacements scattered about within. Tanks and transports could not traverse the terrain, and the Astartes and Sororitas were pitted against the enemy's own armored cadres outside of the fortress walls of the capital itself alongside the Imperial Guard regiments in a brutal gambit of keeping the enemy from sortieing out from behind their walls and launch a counter attack.

That left the Penal Legions with the task of opening the back of the city through sheer weight of numbers. It was a task that would have been made easier though no less bloody had it not been for the enemy's heavy artillery camps- camps that were supposed to be silenced by a strike team of Astartes that had deigned to assist this operation. They had clearly failed or met some form of resistance that not even they were capable of quickly overcoming.

Hastis grits his teeth, his ears still ringing as he uncurls and surveys his surrounding, his head pounding in time with his heart. He was still alive.

Painfully still alive.

All around him is death, spanning outwards under an obscured sky, upon a red-black field of bodies, pocketed with craters and lengths of tangled barbed wire. In the grand scheme of this siege, this was just a singular part of a three-kilometer long defensive line. Not even the most heavily guarded one, but despite that, Hastis knew that this was their own part of Hell. A Hell he, Lagorn, and Hyork no less deserved.

As the mortar barrage trickled off, and Hastis could unclench his teeth, he was moving, pulling Hyork with him, struggling forwards under wire and through mud, it was a typical killing field: littered with bodies of cannon fodder- penal legionaries, some still even were alive, streaming across the field towards a line of trenches and a wall of guns. It was the only chance they had. Lagorn was right next to him, he had the bloodied lasrifle gripped with white knuckles in his hands as he crawls forwards, closer to the trenches that ripping lines of tracer fire hissed above.

More shells scream overhead right as they make it to the lip of the first trench line, already bought with the lives of thousands of condemned men. They roll into it, tearing up their flesh as flattened razor wire catches on their clothes. Hastis presses himself against the trench wall, breathing hard. His hands are torn up, but he doesn't notice.

"Lagorn, vox." He snaps and the radioman hands him the speaker.

"Put me through to the Prefect. We need to move on the bunkers."

Lagorn nods, already flipping open his wrist-mounted cogitator, its wires running up his arm and into the vox unit. He scans through the channels, the chatter filtering into his head through his helmet. Hyork remains silent, nursing a wound on his side, it was bleeding pretty heavily, but he was still standing and Hastis had no time to waste on a condemned inquisitor.

The trench was filled with dead men, some still dying. Legionaries and sigil scarred cultists and slaves. Hastis bent down, turning over several legionary corpses, stripping them of several Laspacks before he found what he wanted. He tossed the medical kit to the inquisitor before resuming his search. Hyork fumbled open the medicinal pouch, several syrets spilled out as the inquisitor tried to still his shaking hands.

"This is filled with more narcotics than there is anything useful." Hyork noted

"It ain't meant to save their life, just make 'em fight through the pain." Lagorn said. "No use waiting anything on a dead man." He commented before putting his helmet straight once again, refocusing on the Voxcaster.

"Can't agree more." Hastis stood up, he saw Lagorn helping the inquisitor wrap a bandage under his coat but over the undershirt that was doubtlessly made of woven flak material. It didn't do anything to stop the knife, however.

"Should help for now." Hyork sighed, looking up as Hastis approached.

"Take this," Hastis forced a laspistol into the inquisitor's hands. The man scrutinized the weapon before looking back up at Hastis. "You know I don't need one of these."

"Take it anyways." Hastis snapped. "Can you move?"

"Of course," Hyrok stood, sounding indignant before Hastis yanked him back down.

"Keep. Low." He hissed through grit teeth. "I thought they said they taught you about warfare?"

Hyrok muttered something indiscernible under his breath, and then they were moving once more.

It was barley wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder. Each corner was a right angle meant for a single person to stick their rifle around and unload blindly. The lips of the trenches were covered with razor wire and sandbags, and if you wanted to move without getting your head blasted apart you had to crouch. This was a trench, a premade mass grave for countless trillions upon trillions of lives since the very first once was ever constructed. Blood slick walls on either side of them, pocked with holes from bullet and laser, they stepped over corpses both imperial and heretic alike. Hastis kept the butt of the lasgun to his shoulder, finger hovering over the trigger.

Shells shrieked overhead constantly, above them with screaming engines navel bombers lumbered through the air with rocket pods blistering high explosive wrath across the battle line as flak batteries sought to rip them from the skies. If the Navy was sending in its bombers to this portion of the battle that could only mean that either progress was being made or the engagement was becoming truly desperate.

They kept low, Hastis in the lead, trying to listen over the barrage of artillery that slammed home with almost dogmatic consistency, spraying dirt and shrapnel into the trenches.

Hastis held up his hand and took a knee, "Ears open, listen."

"Listen to what? I can't hear a damn thing after all this noise."

"Just shut up and listen, Inquisitor."

"Don't you dare stop firing, you scrat-heaps! Every last one of you keep pushing! Clog the barrels of their guns with your intestines if you have to!"

"I believe we found the Prefect."

"Just make sure she doesn't shoot us."

There was no tact required when commanding a penal legion. Its operation was simple, its purpose clear. It was an instrument of penance and cold logic. You find an enemy position, and you drown it in bodies. Made up of the filth of the imperial guard and bolstered by the countless overflowing prison worlds of the Imperium, the penal legions of mankind were given the dubious glory of being the first to die at the guns of the enemy. They were thrown into the grinder by the uncaring men at the back of the line- the Prefects.

Standing straight, assuredly exposing herself to the guns of the enemy, she lashed out with hateful words. Her sneer as biting as any sword, she was surrounded by countless shock-maul wielding arbites, warshields ready and mauls sparking with energy. "More bodies on the field- next wave charge!"

Countless legionaries, pushed up over the trench wall by those at their backs met their end almost at once as a blister of machinegun fire mulched them down- but countless more sprinted out into the dead zone between trench networks- that much closer to the bunker complex that barred the imperial forces from the city walls and the heretics that skulked within.

"Next wave! Charge!" her augmeticly-enhanced voice shrieked, almost giving out as she thrust outwards with her chainsword, her augmetic arm whirring. Again more legionaries vaulted over the trench wall- but this time, several hesitated for an instant- an instant too long, their heads popping as keen eyed arbites put lasbolts through their skulls- urging on the others through their execution.

"Prefect?" Hyork called out; the prefect didn't respond for a moment, eyeing the battlefield before turning around, and stepping back into the trench, her shield wall parting to let her through. She eyed them, her eyes as mechanical as the grilled vox-hailer that replaced her mouth.

"Inquisitor?" She asked, "I had assumed you dead with the rest of the rabble."

"Nearly." Hastis nodded. "Shells went wide, knocked us about. Got lucky."

"Not lucky enough, it would seem. You have yet to meet with the Emperor." The prefect nodded. Hastis withheld a groan. He loved the emperor as much as the next man but a zealot was always a pain to deal with.

"So it would seem, Prefect. Regardless of that, would you give us a summery of the situation?" Hyork replied.

"The heathens are just over the way, Inquisitor, holed up in a trench overlooked by a bunker complex that stretches the rest of the way to the city."

Hastis chanced a look over the edge of the trench, nearly a mile of fortified positions stretched out across the wasteland set before the great walls of the crown city of this fetid planet.

"Hardly seems like something that could taken with only infantry." Hyork said aloud.

"It isn't." The prefect replied. "Hence why it is the perfect chance for redeeming these wretches. Next wave!" She shouted, and again the miserable line of scum cowering in the trenches was forced over the wall. Nearly a hundred men dying at once as a mortar barrage impacted in the center of their charge.

"Should they fail- as this scum likely will- it matters not." The preceptor continues. "Their duty is to be ground into meat so as to pave the road with their corpses."

"They're doing a fine job of it, it would seem." Hyork added grimly, another wave was sent over the trench wall. Hastis remained silent. It did not go unnoticed.

"The artillery." He finally said. "They've stopped the bombardment."

"Sounds like it, sir."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Hyork questioned.

"No, it isn't," Again Hastis grabbed the inquisitor by the arm, "They're preparing for a counter charge-

"Prepare to repel this scum!" The precept roared, and Hastis bolted upright, staring out across the dead zone as seemingly a wave of corruption- countless heretics swarmed out of the bunkers, a wave of sound- like the roar of some great beast, or the laughing of a mad god- washed over them like a cloud of palpable dread.

They said nothing, staring across the trenches at a red-faced wave of madmen that poured into the trenches as they left their bunkers, clearly having been bolstering for this assault.

"Meet their charge you scum! Forwards!" The Precept upholsters a bolt pistol, leveling at the dwindling ranks of legionaries at her disposal she fires into them, mulching several before the rest scramble up out of the trench and into massed autogun fire from a horde of cultists that continues to stream out of their rockcrete dens. Hastis strains to say something in the face of what could only be summarized to appear like a blanket of hate, sweeping over a field, it is a sight Hastis has seen far too many times before.

The only sound is the eruption of their screaming, any artillery ceasing for a moment, any machine guns stopping, the battle line goes silent for the briefest of seconds before their roar beings. Their chants and trumpets, it's like this every time.

Most enemies will keep you pinned with their big guns when they charge your position.

Not Cultists, not followers of the Archenemy.

They want to charge you while you were standing.

"Aim!" It's Hyork who shouts this, his voice seeming to echo in everyone's head for a moment before his order is unquestioningly followed, even the arbites and Preceptor all raise their weapons and ready their shots.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

He rests his cheek against the stock of his plundered rifle, noting the sickly sweet smell of blood that seems to permeate the air all of a sudden. The cultists are closer- swarming in the trenches now, frothing at the mouth to retake the defenses that the Penal Legionaries had bought with blood and bodies.

He never wanted to be part of the damned inquisition.

Hastis stares across no mans land for what feels like an hour- a feeling he is familiar with, a feeling as warming as his finger caressing the worn trigger of the lasgun he holds. The roar is deafening, thumping like a heartbeat in his ears, and then Hyork bellows.

The fecking old man, Throne damned Hyork, he ruined everything.

"Open fire!"

He didn't want to die here.

Hastis pulls the trigger, right as the first madman begins to charge. His head snaps back as a lasbeam blows through his skull and incinerates his brain- his body falling limp. Down the line, the scene repeats, lasbolts burning through the ragged cloth or bare chests of cultists as they scramble up over the ridge of their trench, hysterical with rage and glee, armed with only crude weapons and some not even armed at all- their hands curled into claws or fists, their teeth sharpened into nail points.

"Hastis!" Hyork shouts, he has the laspistol drawn, he pulls the trigger with succinct curtness, taking his time and aiming despite the mass of flesh before him- impossible to miss. "Use my codes- put me through with the nearest imperial forces!"

"But sir, the Council-"

"To hell with that!" Hyork doesn't look away from his firing, bullets snap through the air around him but he hardly pays them any mind, simply stepping to the side every so often. Hastis doesn't move for a moment, as the inquisitor he remembers from years ago comes back into focus before him. "DO IT NOW." Hyork roars.

"Sir!" Hastis snaps, turning to Lagorn, "Do it."

The first madman hits the trench line. A screaming hulk of rippling muscle, diving over the edge into a clump of Legionaries, by the time a lasgun is pressed flush against his skull he has already eaten through the throat of two men and is tearing the head off of a third, and by the time the lasbolt blows apart his brain, three more of these fiends have slaughtered their way into the trench- their rage howling through the air and blocking out all else.

"Preceptor! To me!" The Inquisitor pockets his pistol- powerpack empty, he grabs his cane and twists, along its length a blade emerges, and glows with brilliant white light, the head turns and straightens, forming to his grip. The Preceptor, howling her battle hymns only gives the faintest sign of acknowledgment, her shield-bearing Arbite enforces shifting around her, stalking back through the double wide trench to encircle Hastis, Hyork, and Lagorn.

"This is our stand!" She bellows, her pistol ejects a cascade of shells as she holds down the trigger, emptying an entire stack of bolts in a matter of moments- the trench before her exploding into a gore heap as mass reactive rounds tear through legionary and cultist alike. "No mercy only death! Only Duty! Only the Emperor!"

There was no battle cry or epitaphs from Hastis and Lagorn, just inarticulate screaming, and the animalistic lexicon of grunts and shouting as the horde fell upon them, their bodies seeming to blot out the sky as the jumped down upon them, into the trench.

Hastis emptied the powerpack into the first two that fell before him, he had no time to even remember what they looked like, what horrid brands they wore, not their scars or ritual markings, or even if they wore armor, they were the enemy, and they needed to die. Hastis shouldered his lasgun and held down the trigger- superheated beams of light punched holes in the unarmored cultists, searing through flesh, boiling blood, burning bone and stitching a line of charred meat through the dogs of the dark powers.

He whipped around, holding the barrel of his weapon- ignoring how it scalded his hands as he smashed the stock over the head of another cultists that thought to spear him through the back with a crude blade. He kept ahold of the bent weapon, swinging it back around and into the gut of some mutant thing with too many arms. It grabbed the bent piece of metal that was once a lasrifle, and Hastis let it have it, stepping back- feeling the bulky shape of a Vox caster against his back as he did so. He needn't think twice to know that it was Lagorn- his brother and closest comrade.

He ripped out his revolver- fanning the hammer as he held down the trigger, each shot tore chunks out of the mutant, each lasbolt powerful enough to dig a hole in the trench wall before dissipating, he spun it around in his hand, catching his weapon by the barrel he clubbed it across the head of a cultist, and then another before slipping it into his holster- drawing straight steel, and plunging it into the heart of another.

He grunts, something sharp cutting into his side, being drawn out and than slamming back home again. He slams forwards, into a cultist that now wrapped an arm around him, hugging him close- he can smell his sickly sweet breath- he doesn't let go, so Hastis rears back, and slams his head into him, and then again, he grunts, and Hastis knees him in the balls. He groans in pain, Hastis plunges his knife into his eye socket, digging it in, letting it cut into grey matter before he lost his grip from the welt of blood that erupts from the wound and over the hilt. Hastis snarls, kicking the corpse away from him and into the melee beyond, he spins around, in time to catch another frenzied cultist across the face with his elbow.

Hastis balls his hands and screams smashing this heretic across the face with his torn up fists, a quick jab to the stomach- something smashes across his back and he staggers forwards, taking the cultist in front of him down with him. He grapples with the heretic, turning over, holding him in font of him as he feels something stab into his gut, through the body of the heretic. He snarls through his teeth, his hand searching the ground around him, he screams through a clenched jaw as he feels several boots trample over his fingers but his hand finds the hilt of a weapon.

He throws the dead Heretic off of him, his gut wrenching in pain as whatever was lodged within him was torn out, he brings up his weapon, his broken fingers bent at every wrong angle, and the snarling chainsword of the Preceptor bites into the neck of a cultist, and through into the chest of another. Hastis scrambles to his feet, a flurry of arms and elbows from every side as the trench fight dissolves into madness at every angle, he cracks a cultist across the head with the flat of the chainsword, and punches its tip through the gut of another, its whirling teeth grinding through bone and muscle and organ before he pulls it back out- the squall of gore that follows it floods the ground around his boots. He has no time to react as another heretic smashes into him with a full body tackle.

No finesse, no skill required, Hastis just holds the chainsword against the body of the heretic as he screams in time with its engine. He keeps his back to the trench wall, chainsword held in front of him, his teeth bared. Snarling, raging, a shape rushes him, he doesn't recognize the colors so that makes it fair game, he ducks under the swing and brings up his weapon, it bites into flesh and tears through out the other side, leaving a gory mess of two halves of a body. He swings again, feeling something punch through his leg; he ignores it, despite how it hobbles his step.

Another cultist falls, something clubs him across the face and he goes to the ground, he rolls, an impact telling him of a narrow miss, he brings the chainsword around, a moment of resistance, more screaming, more red splattering over him, and a shape falls next to him, just inches away, he gives it no chances, rolling over onto it, he sinks his teeth into the meaty flesh of the neck and bites down around a tube.

He pulls, tearing out something vital and important, he spits, blood leaks down his throat so he vomits, retching as he reaches out, grabs a cultist by the neck and pulls him back off of a familiar shape adorned in colors he could recall through the red haze covering his eyes. He kicks the knee out of whoever he has a ahold of, they go down and he makes sure they stay down, the chainsword howling still in his grip rips into meat and snarls through bone, there is screaming all around him, the ripping shrieks of pain and anger.

He nearly loses ahold of his weapons as an impact from behind forces him to his knees. He goes limp falling to his side a shape covers him for a moment-he kicks upwards, boot finding purchase against a body. It staggers backwards and he scrambles to his feet, his off hand and finding purchase on the hilt of the still snarling chainblade. A sloppy swipe, the grinding teeth intercepted by something metal batting it back down, he heaves himself forwards, throwing himself against the body before him like some sort of drunkard.

He smashes his elbow into what looked like a face, pain and vision blurring together against the red foreground. He smashes his elbow into a neck, a chest, again, again, until something breaks and hands from behind wrap around his throat, cutting off his screams. Words- shouting, he makes them out through the violence surrounding his existence- Lagorn:

"Support-" Lagorn screams, Hastis grins, roaring through the blood flecking his teeth; he smashes his elbow back against the cultist strangling him. "Inbound-"

A roar, louder than the cultists and louder than his own, shrieks overhead.

Hastis can only think 'Airstrike' and he braces for the explosion, but it doesn't come, he tears himself free of the cultist grip, turning around, taking a single seconds to smear his hand across his face, to clear the blood from his eyes.

He can only make out a whirlwind of green and brown violence. Dropping into the trench from above- from screaming shuttles that blitzed over the ground with open cockpits and torrents of gunfire. Giants with axes and staves, landing among the cultists with boot and weapon and fist, standing out amongst them was a length of glittering gleaming silver, pulverizing skulls and cracking into bodies- turning cultists double as spines snapped in half.

It was over in seconds. The trenches outside the bunkers awash with blood as the screaming hovering speeders tore up the bunkers with blisters of armor piercing rounds and shrieking missiles, even more deadly were the giants that leapt from the cockpits, landing amongst the rabble, tossing grenades into firing slits, all while not speaking a word.

Leave it to the Astartes to steal all the credit.

Hastis spat blood, dragging out the chainsword that had saved him from the corpse of a heretic.

He looked around him; the bodies littered the trench in their countless dozens, nearly stacking up the sides. He couldn't find Lagorn, but he could see Hyork. Surrounded by what might of have been cultists, but now reduced to heaps of ash, there was not telling how many he had slain.

And then there was the space marine.

Almost seeming to appear next to him, along with ten others. They didn't wear that armor they were always known for; instead, they wore what Hastis could only guess to be carapace plates. Colored a dark brown and green, with only white trimming on their should pads denoting a variety things that Hastis didn't even bother to understand- aside from the VI that every one of them carried. They all looked similar, only faint differences telling each of them apart.

One of them stepped over to Hastis; he was holding a metal staff easily taller than Hastis was. He was grim looking, dour and taciturn with steel-blue eyes and several studs driven into his skull. The marine looked him over, saying nothing. Hastis didn't either. He wasn't going to be the one to talk first, not to a marine.

The marine seemed to take the hint, nodding to Hastis, "You are wounded." The marines voice was just as deep as he expected it to be.

Hastis grunted. "I didn't notice." He didn't look down at himself. He didn't really want to see just how bad it was.

The marine nodded again, as if confirming it with himself. "Votar, see to him." He said as he turned away, looking to Hyork.

It was only at this point that Hastis allowed himself to pass out.

…

Hastis opens his eyes, only to shut them again and groan aloud. The uncomfortable metal bench he's laying on slams back against his head as he tries to block out the light.

"So, you're breathing." A voice tells him, almost amused. "That's an improvement."

It took another few seconds to gather his thoughts, as his mind felt clouded with fog and uncertainty. He tried to raise his head only for someone to shove him back down.

"No, stop that."

Hastis tried to bark out an insult, tried to say anything, but with his tongue feeling like gum the best he could manage was to drool all over himself and gurgle like an idiot child.

"Throne, look at you," something soft dabbed at his face, mopping up his drivel. "Can hardly believe that you'd be a inquisitorial agent the way you are now. But, I suppose you have the merits to prove it." He clung to the words being spoken to him like the were a lifeline pulling him back into reality, dragging him out of the swirling fog occluding his mind. Grunting in reply, he tried opening his eyes again. The light was far less harsh now, and blurry shapes began to swim into relative focus.

He was on his back, lying on a slab in the back of a medical truck, a casualty carriage or meat wagon, some guardsmen would say. The truck was moving, the hazmat shell around the roll cage rustling and buffeting, his body jerking numbly with every bump in the terrain. A sister hospitiler was glowering down at him, the left half of her face a mess of augmetics and lenses, her remaining half still of the flesh but significantly scarred. She was dressed in the armor of her order, power armor of a lighter mark, made for stability and dexterity more than raw protection and power.

"Are you of your senses, now?" the Sister asked, a dry and clipped tone about her voice. She sounded like a Noble. "Blink for how many." She ordered, holding up two fingers, and then five before going back down to three while moving her hand about his filed of vision. Her blinked in accordance, tracking her hand, "Well enough." She said, taking a second to pry open one of his eyes and leer closely. "You should be relatively safe to move around. Not at all comfortable, but," She grins, no humor in it at all, just regret and despondence. "I'm sure you can handle a bit of pain, now, cant you?"

Hastis forced himself upright, extremely unsteady and he was sure that if not for the powerful painkillers blasting through his system he would surely feel the extensive damage along his mortal frame.

He mutters something, his words slurred as he rights himself, sliding off the gurney and almost falling as the medical truck comes to a halt, its brakes squealing in protest. He glances back at the sister hospiteller, a question forming in his mind before being drowned by the deluge of painkillers in his system. He exits the medical truck, and once again he finds himself on the front lines.

He can just make out the city capital in the distance. Grand spires of stone and metal piercing upwards against the backdrop of a truly massive siege-wall that bridges together two mountains, Hastis knows that on the other side of the truly herculean fortification. Dozens of guard armored regiments and astartes squads were dueling with a seemingly endless number of enemy armor- primitive tracked vehicles with cannons and machineguns that rolled out of caves set into the mountains base in endless numbers.

The conquest ahead was going to be a grueling task. Narrow city streets lined with any number of ambush positions and a likely extensive sewer network underneath that would be perfect for ambushes. It was only the start of it. In order to make it to that doorstep into hell, the final defenses had to be smashed. A wide and deep dugout had been made, the once remains of several heretic mortar positions, now occupied by imperial forces. He was standing in what was to become a triage station, the medical truck and support staff already setting up tents and unwracking medicae servitors from their box compartments. Hastis felt his wounds, still numb and tingly. He could afford to move around some more. He went off to find Lagorn.

There was thunder overhead, allied artillery, repositioned and commencing firing, now free to do so unmolested by enemy counter batteries. The mud sucked at his boots, more blood than mud. Already several guardsmen were running through the trench complex, readjusting ruined fortifications to face around and laying down duckboard. Several spared him a few quick glances before moving on, there was no time for laxity. This was still an active warzone.

Hastis found Lagorn with Hyork; they were standing outside of a command bunker once used by the Heretic echelons previously in control of this trench network. Ecclesiarchal servitors were scraping away at the walls of the rockcrete structure buried in the ground, muttering eulogies and hymns, sanctifying the place before it was made use of. Hastis could smell the saccharine sickly smell of flamer exhaust wafting up from within the complex, its walls doubtlessly purified by fire before being scraped clean.

"Ah, Hastis." Hyork said, noticing him now. "Good to see you moving. Damage must've looked worse than it actually was, I see."

Hastis grunted, looking at the third man among them. "This is…" He asked.

"Colonel Deov Vestalt of the Calibrian 76th Linbreakers." The man introduced himself. He was larger than them all by no small margin. The dress uniform he was wearing hugged a well-muscled frame and was laden with medals over his left breast. His features were long and stoic, his greying hair combed back over his scalp. He had the unusual complexion of dark yet pale skin that marked him out as a tanker from a desert world. Born under a punishing star but destined to die within a steel coffin. "A pleasure to be of service to the most holy Ordos."

"The pleasure is all mine, Colonel." Hyrok nodded. "To fill you in, Hastis, we're seconding ourselves to this regiment for the remainder of the campaign."

"Sir?" Hastis raised an eyebrow at the obvious complications that brought up. Lagorn caught his eye and subtly shook his head. Hastis closed his mouth, despite the protests in his mind. "As you say, sir."

"Damn shame about the Preceptor though, a fine warrior, may she rest in His light." Hyork sighed, Lagorn made the sign of the Aquilla over his chest. "Sorry if this is all a bit sudden for you, Colonel. But with their only being me and my two adjutants, I'm afraid I don't have the capability to really operate in the usual manner expected of those of my station. And I wouldn't dare take from the Astartes at the moment, they are needed on the battlefield to do as they will."

"It is of no concern, Inquisitor, my command staff has already been notified. We shall do as you order."

"Of those orders, you also need not worry so much. The assault is to go as planned, I'm here on the grounds of rooting out any potential chaos corruption that my try to worm its way through your ranks. While I have full confidence in your commissars I have found that a more 'nuanced' approach yields better results."

Hastis decided to let them talk, he waved Lagorn over, the vox operator complying reticently. "What is it." He asked.

"What's going on?" He said. "Why's Hyork doing this?" He snapped quietly, under his breath. "Nothing good will come of this later. Don't think that I won't testify."

"You think testifying will do you any good?"

"A painless death at the very least. I know better than to hope we get through this alive."

"I know, but he's got a solid reasoning to do this."

"And what might that be?"

"He reckons if we put in some good work before they catch up to us, we may have actual chance in a tribunal."

"Are you serious?"

"It's better than doing nothing, sir."

…

Stormshard mortars have a distinct sound. They spin as they fall. Once reaching the apex of their ark and beginning their descent, stabilizer fins canted slightly at an angle deploy, and the shells begin to rotate at a high speed, air being filtered through small intake chutes along the nose cone. This creates the whistling sound they are so known for. Due to the sheer volume of them, it often is like a constant shriek of death. The sheer volume of fire a single squadron of four Wyverns can put out is honestly staggering. An entire curtain of close support firepower blanketing an entire area of operations in lethal shrapnel in a matter of seconds, trenches filled with screaming death.

Hastis sat back against a pile of sandbags and watched the Wyverns go to work, their squat short barrels raised upwards as they continuously let loose with their rapid fire barrages. It was honestly something to see; hull down with only their turrets partially exposed, plumes of fire erupting outwards from each cannon. In the distance he could see the splashes of their impact, long stitching lines of explosions rippling over enemy fortifications. Their current duty was to keep any enemy mortar batteries or gun emplacements suppressed. They had been at it for well over an hour, a massive mound of shell casings was beginning to form around the chassis of the mobile artillery units.

Hastis also watched the movement of the guardsmen, running to and fro, either lugging munitions or clustering together in squads around what he assumed to be the regimental minister to receive the emperors blessing. From what Hastis could tell, the 76th were armored Shock infantry. Their duty was to press the line and smash through hardened enemy defenses. It is a high attritional role that breeds the hardest guardsmen in the imperium, with nerves of steel and blistered armor. The guardsmen were in the process of strapping on last minute adjustments to themselves, doubled flakvests or even carapace plates, shifting magazines and grenades to sit behind them, pulling down full armored masks or breathing respirators. The majority of the guardsmen had their home world equivalent of the lasrifle, mass-produced by their systems forgeworld.

A shorter stock and bulkier frame, a trained eye told Hastis everything he needed to know. Stopping power and single fire with an optional burst setting and overcharge mechanism. But it was the underslung attachments that made their weapons really unique. Some were built in, others just clipped on, but there was a menagerie of short burst flamers, shotgun or grenade launcher mounts. Hastis could only guess that they were a venerated regiment with an amount of leeway among the machine cult for the amount of modifications they were aloud. Any lesser regiment would likely be subjected to Servitor Imperialis.

It showed on their vehicles as well in the form of slabs of additional front armor and turret skirting, as well as dozer blades and armored tracks. There were plenty of adhoc weapons systems, upwards angled, short pre ranged mortars linked to a ripcord. This company was of a speartip formation; an elite veteran unit made for siege work- some of the most punishing kind of warfare. Hastis glowered at the thought of having to storm yet another enemy fortification. The only consolation was that at least this time it would be done with having to rely on a bunch of scum-sucking penal legionaries.

The Stormshards had fallen silent for the time being, the unit commander calling for a cease-fire over the vox. Hastis could see why- the barrels were literally glowing red hot. They would have to be changed and allowed to cool. Crewmembers were already scrambling out of the chassis, thick, padded gloves pulled on; they set to working the quick-release latches on the barrels. Other crewmembers wielded shovels, scoop still steaming shell casings from around the tank, throwing them into piles. Hastis glanced up as the Unit commander wandered over, thumbs hooked in his pockets, goggles pulled on. He was chewing on an unlit lho stick, and offered one to Hastis, who accepted with a nod.

"One hell of a charge across no mans land." The commander of the Assembled Wyverns commented, staring out across the way- smoke still rising from his preliminary bombardments, "Shouldn't the penals be up to this?" He asked.

Hastis let out a dark chuckle, knowing exactly what happened, having been there to experience it in the first place. "The Legion that was supposed to soften them up was decimated. Survivors are being merged into other legions assigned to both of the flanks on either side of us, sorry to say, but it looks like your company has to pick up the slack." Hastis lit his lho stick. He recalled that he used to hate these things. Funny how that changed.

"That is a damn right shame." The tanker grunted. "Gonna lose a lotta lads because of it. Might actually not be that bad, hoping that the honored inquisitor holds up to the rumors."

"Pretend I didn't say this, but I wouldn't get your hopes up too high, friend." Hastis sighed, taking a one long last draw on his narcotic before putting it out on his leg. "Rumors tend to be only rumors in the end."

…

Hastis found himself back with Hyork and Lagorn, forced together uncomfortably close inside a command bunker, a table had been set up in the center of the rockcrete fortification alight with the screen glow of cogitators and the muttering of Servitors. A map was displayed on the table, tiny markers and flags depicting the flow of the battle. Aside from Hyork, Lagorn, and Hastis, there was also the Colonel and his two counterparts: the commanders of the second, third, fourth and fifth companies of the 76th, . Of those five, two would be participating in the assault. Each was a dour man of around the same age and build as Deov, but unlike them they lacked the expansive lapel of medals and honors.

The commander of the first company began the proceedings. "Command is speeding up our time table, the assault is to begin now. We break through along the outlying defenses and penetrate into the city. If we can catch these bastards between us and the main advance we can crush them against the walls of the fortress."

The second company commander spoke up, looking at Hyork "Any support?"

The inquisitor shook his head. "There is not much I can do. I may be an inquisitor but the needs of the greater campaign come first."

Deov cut in. "It is of no concern. Astartes personnel will accompany us, they'll be using our armor as a screening force for their advance."

The third company commander spoke this time. "Is that wise?" He asked. "We'll be sure to draw a good deal of fire."

"I told them as much. They told me to 'Handle It.'"

Hastis growled, "Upstart bastards. Bet it's easy for them to say that when you're wearing a bloody meter of armor on your ass." Hyork gave him a withering glare that told him to be silent; Hastis ignored it as he always did.

"Regardless of that, it still remains that it will be our armor that will be taking the brunt of the assault. I would expect there to be losses." The colonel coughed.

The first company captain spoke up, ignoring the side comment made by Hastis. "Even with the fourth hammering them like this?" As if to drive home his point, another salvo of earthshaker fire rippled across the line.

The colonel nodded. "Even with the barrage, we cannot expect the big guns to do all the work for us." "In the end, it will be down to the tank commanders to suppress their emplacements once the big push begins. Further orders will follow once all units have made it past their second interior defensive lines."

The commander of the third company stepped forwards. "That's when we are to begin our press, correct?"

Deov nodded. "Indeed, keep it slow and steady, fifth will be moving up behind you with prefab fortifications, make sure they don't take a lick of fire."

"Understood, sir."

Hastis shifted as the planning continued on, he was antsy, sitting in a bunker like this was just asking for artillery fire. He coughed and stepped back. "If you gents don't mind, I think I'll take a step out for a bit. Never liked these damned permacrete bunkers." Before Hyork could catch him by the collar, Hastis ducked out.

…

Fire and earth billowed upwards across the way. Houses evaporated alongside entire city blocks as the residential area of the capital was subsumed in flames. From behind Hastis, the concussive thumping of more than three dozen light and heavy artillery guns let loose in perfect sequential fire.

Hastis couldn't help but be mildly impressed by the display. He's seen more bombardments that he cares to admit, each one unique in their execution, out of them all, this one was up there with some of the best in terms of coverage and consistency.

As another barrage was let loose, Hastis leaned out of the Chimeras opened top troop hatch. He had managed to find a tanker friendly enough to let him smoke in his tank while he waited for the charge to begin. Passing him another lho stick was the Chimera's commander, sitting at his turret mounted heavy stubber, leaning against the top hatch like it was some sort of lounge chair. He glanced back at Hastis, pulling up his goggles.

"Artillery contingent's almost done with its preliminary bombardment. Should be ready for us to move any minute now."

Hastis grunted. "Hope those ass-hats know what they're doing." He nodded in the direction of the artillery guns. "I've have had more than enough shelling for one day."

"You were embedded with that Penal legion, weren't you?"

"Unfortunately." Hastis chuckled. "The inquisition isn't all that glamorous as it's cracked up to be."

"You don't say." The chimera commander shook his head. "Well, you have my word sir, the only artillery running about here is our own, and they know where they're aiming."

"Pretty confident, aren't you?"

"The Calibre's fourth company has the best damn gunners you'll see outside of the Kriegers, just you watch! They'll clear the way for us in the first just fine."

"Aye, aye, whatever you say, kid."

"Guardsmen." Hastis and the commander glanced up, away from the explosive display in the distance. It was the marines, the commander straightened up, making the sign of the Aquilla. Hastis merely took another draw from his lho stick, glowering at the marines with an unconcealed loathing. There was around ten of them, each of them looking more or less the same aside from weapons and scars. Hastis recognized the one leading them, silver-grey staff and scoped bolter across his chest. He looked up at them, studying them for a moment before speaking in that damned gravel tone that all Astartes seemed to possess.

"I am Scout Master Yenald of the Sun's Descendants, Sixth Company. You are of the 76th Calibrian, first company?" he asked.

The Chimera commander nodded vigorously. "That I am, Space Marine, honored to fight alongside-" Yenald cut him off, Hastis shook his head as the Marine began giving them orders.

"You will form the spearhead with your tanks. We will strike from Land Speeders and remove their anti armor capabilities. You will follow in behind us after we move to engage from behind you. Clear their trenches and storm the city gates. We will provide support where we deem necessary."

"Yes, well-" The guardsman didn't get the chance to reply before the giants in carapace armor turned around and simply walked off, Hastis watched them go, before snorting in contempt.

"What'd you except, kid. Glory-hogging bastards, the lot of them."

The tanker glanced over at him, clearly uncertain. "You sure you want to say that about a space marine? I mean, you're in the inquisition and all, but, well…" He shrugged uselessly. Hastis barked a laugh.

"Throne, I talked like this before I was yanked into the damned Ordos. Nothing good happens to guardsmen when those damn glory-leeches are about." Hastis shook his head again, "We'd be better off without them, really." He took a drag from his lho stick, and nearly choked.

"Why?"

Hastis coughed, thumping his chest through his flak vest, having nearly swallowed his lho stick. He glared down at the Marine who had seemingly materialized just by the Chimera. Hastis leaned over the side and snarled angrily. "Thorne! Don't do that you filthy pizzgit!" he snapped. "How does a damned bloke as big as you move around like that? Nearly gave me a heart attack, damn you."

"You said that you would be better off without us? Why?" The marine asked. Hastis tried to place the face, having seen him before, but than again once more, they all bloody looked alike.

He didn't know what to say really, not wanting to delve into details he'd be more comfortable in not sharing. He glanced at the tanker who quickly shook his head, not wanting any part of the conversation. "Don't look at me, sir, your words, not mine." He said.

Hastis growled, and lit another lho stick, trying to ignore the marine, and just let this whole conversation just die. "Forget it, it's nothing."

The marine wouldn't budge, instead he looked about his surroundings for a moment, regarding the other Chimeras and Russ's, lined up and ready to move once the shelling stopped before he looked back up at Hastis, expression unreadable. "There surely must be something. Otherwise you would not have said what you said."

Hastis sucked in his breath and forced himself to hold it for several moments, letting the smoke suffuse his lungs, he could feel his blood beginning to rise and he struggled for calm. He was never good with his emotions at the best of times. "I said it's nothing." His words were clipped and curt, his trigger finger itched and he felt the need to bite something.

"Votar." The marine commander, the one with the silver stick came back, passive in his movements and expression he looked to his younger. "Do not harass the mortals."

…

It was nearly the time, now. They've been given five minutes to prepare, the whole of the 76th's Mechanized Armor was ready in just three. The fourth company's bombardment had ratcheted up several degrees with earthshaker rounds blasting apart the enemies' fortified positions with murderous intent, flattening razor wire and turning tank traps into shrapnel. Trenches were pulverized and bunkers shattered, and through it all, Hastis watched, mesmerized as he made his way just behind Hyork and Lagorn. It was a habit of his to watch artillery bombardments, something about it just felt cathartic to him.

There was commotion all around them as the three agents of the Inquisition wove their way through mobilizing lines of armor. Chimeras, Leman Russ's, and Salamanders loaded with heavy weapons were preparing to enact a mad dash across an open stretch of land in hopes of pushing the enemy back. It was a grim prospect that everyone was prepared for, but in only so much a way that one can be prepared to hand over their lives to the lady of fortune and grace of the Emperor.

"And this, I believe, would be our transport." Hyork said. Hastis approved of his choice. A grandiose monster fitted with armor plating several inches thick in the least armored of areas, a re-discovered piece of lost technology that had made its home in the Imperial Guard. The **Crassus Armored Assault Transport**. Growling even while idle, the massive infantry conveyance vehicle had dropped its rear ramp, heavily armored guardsmen in full carapace gear climbed aboard. Standing outside, one foot on the ramp and one hand on a power sword, was first lieutenant Suliko of the Calibre 76th, first company, first platoon shock infantry. Hastis didn't like the look of him, the folded beret and silver chain ornamentals told him everything he needed to know about the man. He was an officer that was more than willing to sacrifice all of his men to complete even the lowliest of objectives. He wasn't likely malicious about it, or even aware of it, thinking that a few lives lost were of no concern when put to the merits of victory. Perhaps, he was even right in doing so, but the way Hastis saw it, throwing the lives of honest guardsmen away was never justified.

The Lieutenant snapped off a crisp salute upon seeing the Inquisitor and his adjutants, he looked young in Hastis' opinion, young and proud with his fair share of scars that could be more rightly qualified as shaving nicks in a veterans guardsman's opinion. "Welcome aboard, Inquisitor!" Suliko grinned, waving them aboard. "Should be seats just up ahead. Might be a little loud and crowded, this old girl tends to shout and jostle when she's really fired up."

Climbing aboard and making their way forwards between the seated and standing guardsmen, grouped up in their respective squads, Lagorn couldn't help but whistle. "She's quite the beast. How old is she?"

Suliko was more than happy to answer, closing the ramp behind him as he climbed on after. "Good question, that one. Voltair's been in the regiment longer than any of us. Been around since the founding I reckon." He shrugged, still smiling, strapping in next to Hyork and Hastis, Lagorn sat across from them, his Vox Set taking up most of the seat. "Maybe she's been around even since the regiments first ever founding! Perhaps, even before that."

Hastis raised a brow at that, a machine like a Crassus was rare despite the efforts of the Mechanicum to increase their production rates of the beasts. "How so the Seventy Sixth regiment of your planet has her then?" He asked. "Why not your first?"

Suliko grinned again, the question only seeming to increase his enthusiasm. "Ah-ha, well now, you see, Mother Calibre has only ever managed to raise one regiment. So, in short, the seventy-sixth _is_ the first regiment, but we've been reinforced seventy-six times." He grins. "Our planet doesn't have much in the way of people." He explained. "Populations never really managed to break over one billion, desert is too harsh for that, can't even build underground! Bloody huge sand worms won't let us, and hives always sink before they can be stabilized. So, our people live in these huge caravans, constantly moving, otherwise the storms would bury us! You could imagine trying to raise a family in that kinda place would be like, not very easy."

"That explains why you're all so damned cheery to be in the guard."

"Lotta people say they miss home, let me tell you, sir, we're sure as hell not among them!"

The lights in the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** flicked from regular to red, and the noise ratcheted up by several ear breaking degrees as the massive armored carrier began to move, its tracks churning the earth beneath its weight as it climbed over the palisades and onto the field of battle. All around it smaller Chimeras and even a second **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** , along with squadrons of Leman Russes of various marks crested with it. Despite the massed amount of armor, none were more impressive than the leviathan among them- a twin barreled disciple of war, far greater than any leman russ main battle tank, was a Macharius Vanquisher. Classified as a Second Generation Baneblade, the Macharius proudly flew the regimental colors, within its hull was Colonel Deov Vestalt, and his steed was named _Divine Judicator_.

"Here it comes, gents." Suliko thumbed the top of his sword, every guardsman standing now inside the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** , hands on weapons or handrails, respirators on, masks down, forcing their breathing to be both long and steady. Several whispered prayers, several ran gloved fingers over their weapons, feeling for faults, and several stood in silence, listening to the drumming of explosions and bullets outside, louder than even the roar of Voltair's engine.

Hastis clutched the charm around his neck, thumbing the metal piece that hung next to his I-dent tags. Hyork closed his eyes, chin down; humming along to a song only he could hear. Lagorn double-checked his vox, sweat beaded his brow, in keeping with his own ritual, Largorn purposely cut his thumb on a bent metal panel of the vox and wiped his thumb over his left brow. From the crew compartment a gunner slammed his fist three times.

The ramp fell.

A hot wind swept into the compartment, dust and debris, carrying the scent of death with it. Ash plastered itself to the armor of guardsmen, uncaring of rank or standing. With it came also the rattle of Gunfire and blanket force of concussions, Suliko shouted to be heard over it all. "Go! Out of the belly lads! Go!" Guardsmen surged forwards, boots pounding down the ramp and stomping into fire-baked earth that was as much a mix of dirt and rock as it was of blood and shrapnel.

"Lagorn, on me," Hastis snapped, unholstering his weapon, the Las-revolver hummed with stored power. "Hyork, don't lose sight of my back."

It was like every other battlefield that Hastis had known: the acrid stench of ionized air intermingling with cordite and promethium, overlaid with the myriad smell of corpses- some burning, some bleeding, vomit and shit. "One and two! Take the left, three and four to the right! Flamers lead- purgation spread, clear the way! Voltair, drive in the spear!" Ambition aside, Hastis could see that the lieutenant was a competent commander, high caliber fire stitched sparks across the hull of the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** and lasbeams scorched the earth around the disembarking Calibrians who sprinted to cover the last few feet of ground between them and the smashed ruins of buildings and streets- now nothing but scattered rubble and stone filled craters. Four squads, ten men a piece with a braying sergeant leading them each were quick to follow with the Lieutenants orders. Hissing flamers crouch-ran forwards, their squad mates shouldering rifles as they ran just behind them, putting down punishing scores of lasfire. Those at the head of the squads were quick to action in the face of hostile resistance, trenches yet occupied were subject to trained responses, the Grenadiers quick to rip frag grenades off of their webbing, thumbing the pin and tossing them ahead.

Through it all, the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** , Voltair, like the leviathan it was ground forwards, its two front mounted heavy flamers erupted into a searing conflagration of heat that speared ahead of it, bright streams of purifying wrath that could melt even stone. Flickering briefly every other second, so fired its lascannons, bright instantaneous beams of focused energy strong enough to bore through the side of a land-raider. Smoke seemed to pour out from its sides, and Hastis feared for a moment that it had sustained damage somehow, a second later the realization only dawning that it was expelling billowing clouds of concealment so as to shroud the infantry disembarking.

"First platoon! Double-line advance!" Suliko called out, voice ringing in the vox-beads of the squad sergeants, Hastis could hear him clearly even without being tuned to their channel. The guardsmen were quick to comply, each squad staying within sight of each other, the heavily armored weapons specialists taking to the front of each squad. Behind and next to them the rest of the squad advanced, firing indiscriminately but not without purpose, the barrage of lasfire kept any would-be snipers pinned as the flamer's wafted searing promethium ahead of them.

The **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** smashed through the remnants of a bunker, grinding rockcrete and metal beneath its tracks. To its left and right the platoon clambered over cracked and shattered barricades and leapt over trenches filled with the scorched and curled corpses of heretics. The artillery had done well, smashing the worst of the defenses without a single guardsman having to fall to them.

"Are we making good progress?" Hyork asked, keeping up with Hastis and Lagorn despite his age. Hastis glanced back at him, keeping his head down, staying close to the cover of the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** as it ground on ahead.

"Worst is yet to come." Hastis had known Hyork for far longer than he cared to recount. Despite it all, Hastis still forgot that the Inquisitor was no adept of war; he was unable to read the ebb and flow of the battle as easily as a seasoned guardsman like Hastis or Lagorn. Hyork was a bureaucrat and an spy, not a soldier; he had no place on an imperial battle line like this. The enemies he was meant to fight were ones that required subterfuge and bureaucracy to counter. Hastis and Lagorn were only supposed to be there should no small amount of muscle be required. They were the grunts, the damned bloody infantry. They weren't the ones that were supposed to be in charge, they weren't the ones that were meant to tell an Inquisitor how to do something.

"We need to keep up with the advance." Hastis snapped, he primed his weapon, "Stay low," Hastis kept his head down, wishing for a helmet at that moment in time as he felt a spray of shrapnel ping off the side of the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** and knick him across the face, another wound to be lost among his myriad of scars should he survive.

"Lagorn, you with me?"

"Always, sir." The vox operator was reliable to a fault, someone that Hastis knew he could count on, more than any failure of an Inquisitor.

The smoke billowing out from the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** cleared, the infantry now in cover, charging upwards as the streets began to slope towards the grand cathedral at the seat of the castle that was their ultimate objective. Hastis could see it looming above, streams of tracers billowed out from its battlements, its walls protected by a powerful series of voidshields.

"Into the city! All squads, advance ahead of Voltair!"

"That's our go, with me." Hastis broke away from the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport** ; he could hear the shifting vox equipment behind him that was Lagorn and the crunch of Hyork's boots. The shattered defense lines turned into the ruined and desiccated realm of a once imperial city, feudal in nature, its buildings built out of brick and mortar, cobblestone streets now dirtied with spent shell casings and heretic sigils that hurt the eye to gaze upon.

The guardsmen were grinding forwards in a fighting advance, keeping to either side of the main street they dueled an enemy fortification that was determined to block their progress; an entrenched machine gun nest based in a three story lodge hung with red tabards that swore devotion to a cruel being. Men in stolen and defaced uniforms of the PDF leaned out of the windows, blasting away with autoguns, hosing the street in lead. Hastis caught a ricochet in the chest, the round almost knocking the breath out of him as his flakvest stopped it cold. Grimacing he ducked right into a recess carved into a buildings wall by an explosion.

The Calibrians had no such qualms about cover as he did, trusting in their heavy carapace pieces to protect them. In a madmans gambit, one of the squads doggedly advanced out of cover, two members popping smoke, hurling the canisters up the street while the rest of the squad let loose with bursts of lasfire, running through billowing clouds of concealment, sparks of bullets showering off of their chest pieces as the squads weapon specialist closed in.

The weapons trooper hauled up his flamer, the pilot light flickering sinisterly as an eruption of heat spat outwards, and through an open window on the second floor. Fire swept through the hallways, catching the dry wood alight and scorching bricks into a black mess. Hastis could make out the screaming from within. He couldn't help but grin at the sound. It was a good sound.

…

"Keep up, inquisitor, we're to secure a breaching point for our armor so that third and fourth platoon may encircle and engage from the flanks of the enemy." It was remarkable how calm the Lieutenant was despite the storm of fire that chipped away at the stonewall Hastis, Hyork and Lagorn were crouched behind for cover. Across from them was Suliko. Heavy stubber fire from multiple directions chattered relentlessly as the first platoon guardsmen fired back with blistering volleys of lasbeams. Hastis could feel the hairs on his arms stand up on end as the air around them became increasingly ionized from extended energy weapons discharge.

Voltair was relentless, crushing the street beneath her treads she advanced, her heavy flamers washing over the cultists positions and scattering them as ash. Without her support each engagement would take far longer though the outcome no different. "Positions cleared, advance!"

Hastis fell into position alongside Suliko, the Lieutenant made himself a target all too often for Hastis' liking but the squads covered their leader accordingly. "What of your other companies?" Hastis asked.

"Second company is pressing the enemy along the line further east and west along the, ensuring that we are not flanked ourselves. Third company is standing by for fire missions." Suliko shook his head. "Not that we can utilize them at all. This being a 'holy-city' and what not."

Hastis grunted in reply, there were times when the administratum was feeling particularly dickish, and went ahead and restricted the use of specific weapons on certain planets for fear of causing collateral damage to a particularly special building, hive, monument, factory or other. In this case, it was the cathedral ward that was to not be fired upon by heavy ordinance. There were hopes that it could be reclaimed with minimal damage to the structure and the Sororitas were making a fuss about it remaining intact. Hastis knew better than to hope. That did raise a question however.

"If the ROE forbids heavy weapons, than why are you rolling up armor?"

"Only the Exterminator patterns are pressing behind us, they aren't classified as heavy ordinance so long as they don't use high-ex." Suliko answered. "Shouldn't have to worry about the Ecclesiarchy going off on us for that."

"What about smoke shells, incendiary?"

"Wyverns should have that covered, they'll be moving in with the Colonel."

"Isn't the Colonel manning a _facking_ _Macharius_?"

"Shouldn't be a problem so long as he doesn't aim directly at the cathedral."

"I see you Calibrians take ROE rather loosely." Hastis found himself starting to like this Lieutenant. "Can't say that I'm not a fan."

"I aim to please, Sir," Suliko grinned, fixing his beret.

The street began to narrow, walls and buildings closing in as the cathedral drew nearer. Suliko held a hand up, stopping their advance. "The road gets tight here, squads form a column. Voltair, hold with fourth squad, we'll see what's up ahead." The guardsmen moved to comply. Suliko turned to Hastis, twirling his power sabre with a practiced flourish. "Care to join me, Sir?" He offered.

Hastis chuckled and shook his head. "I haven't lived this long by becoming a red flag for a sniper, I think I'll stay back here."

"A damn shame," Suliko grinned again. "Very well, I hope you don't mind if I help myself to your share of the glory then, Sir."

"By all means." Hastis motioned for him to go with a smirk.

Suliko nodded and strode forwards, the idling engine of Voltair behind him, "First squad to me, second squad watch the ingress points, third squad provide covering fire from that building."

Hastis found himself falling into line behind the third squad as their sergeant kicked open a door to a more-or-less intact gallery filled with what must've passed for fine art on this world- garish paintings of black and red smears that were disconcerting to look at. As they walked up the stairs to the second floor, Hastis glanced back at Lagorn who stalled, looking out a window at the Lieutenant who boldly strode out into a plaza that held an ornate fountain at the center

"Bold or foolish?" Hastis asked. "Which do you think?"

"I dunno," Lagorn shrugged. "Damaged maybe?"

"Well…" Hyork stroked his beard, trying to work out the accrual of dirt and mud that clogged it. "That doesn't seem unreasonable."

One of the guardsmen tapped against the wall of the building, catching their attention as they lined up along the second story, some of the guardsmen grenadiers crouching low over the balconies. This one spoke to them. " _Nah, ain't that at all, if you'll pardon me sayin', sir's."_ The grenadier said, a clear accent in his voice. His voice was slightly muffled by the heavy rebreather he wore, his face was obscured by a full mask that came down from his helmet _"Our ol' LT's justa' bit eccentric loik that. A lotta' the clan-leader types back home are loik that, yeh see'."_

"Clan leaders? So, you're a tribal people?" Hyork asked, quirking a brow. "I wouldn't have guessed. You are quite, ah, 'civilized' if you do not mind me saying."

The grenadier cocked his head, almost confused it would seem, thinking. _"Tribal? Eh, I guess you could call it that?"_ He said before shouting over his shoulder back at another one of his squad mates. _"Hey, Skizzo, what're we again? A feuda-whatsit?"_

 _"_ _Whats'at?"_ 'Skizzo' leaned back into the building from the balcony overlook, only his head appearing. _"Why you askin' me? I dunno fack all!"_ Skizzo shouted down the way.

 _"_ _Well you're the one git always goin' on 'bout poli-tics and shit loik that, I thoughts' you knew somethin! Don' tell me you've been leadin' us on this whole time now."_

Guardsman Skizzo waved dismissively. _"Ah, shove off, you putz,"_ His head whipped around as blood smeared across his mask, as the guardsman next to him had his head come apart from a high velocity round punching clean through his skull. At once, there was shouting; explosions and weapons fire ripping in every direction across the plaza as the ambush truly begun.

The guardsman next to Hastis brought up his lasrifle, shouting _"Enemy fire!"_ He squeezed off bursts of lasfire, bracketing a tall building several blocks down that had erupted with an expulsion of autogun fire. _"Thirty-Six exact from my position, white tower at three-fifty meters, top floor! Sniper!"_ More gunfire spacked off the walls, Hyork ducked in time as the wall above him was shredded apart as a heavy stubber up the street unloaded its belt fed hate. The report of the heretic snipers shot was the signal to begin. Hastis crouched low, moving quickly he made it to the first balcony, the grenadier named Skizzo was quick to re-target and put fire on the cultist heavy weapons team as his fellow Calibrians unleashed a full salvo against the heretic sniper. There was the hope that the shooter was untrained and only lucky, not knowing to reposition, thinking that sheltering in his tower was enough.

"Oi! Rifle!" Hastis shouted. Without taking his eyes off his target or letting up with his disciplined bursts, Skizzo kicked his fallen comrades weapon back towards Hastis. Hastis hadn't gotten a chance to take a close look at the weapons the grenadiers were using. Now that he had one it was clear that they were a specialist platoon made for close in engagements, if their lasguns were anything to go by. Hastis was used to the bog-standard M35 M-Galaxy pattern Lasrifle, it was the one his own regiment had used, and this thing in his hands was nothing like that. With a stub-barrel and bulky frame, and no stock to speak of, and a drum shaped charge back, he had trouble figuring out how to hold the damned thing. In confusion, Hastis looked to the Grenadier beside him. "You mind explaining what the fack this thing is?" He shouted over the roar of the battle.

The grenadier ducked back into cover and looked at him for a moment, taking stock of the situation before grabbing Hastis right hand and bringing it down to the weapons grip, and his left just below the barrel. " _Right, ok, crash-course orientation."_ The Grenadier breathed, " _Tangbak pattern 67 Assault Lasgun, Fully automatic close-range lasweapon operating in the 16 megathule range of power output, the barrel is good for over three-thousand shots, your charge drum has 800 shots, and the weapon fires at 360 cyclical shots per minute, weight is 3.5 kilograms, effective range is two-hundred and fifty meters. This is your pack release, this is your safety, this is the barrel release- push-twist counter clockwise and pull, make sure the weapons on safe, this is the trigger, and this is the underslung- you've got the scattershot attachment, manstoppers, five in the well before you have to reload. Grip here and depress the forward safety here, and push the firing stud with your index to fire, chambers automatically, and load shells through the ejector."_

Hastis payed close attention, the grenadier quickly leading Hastis' hands over the short-barreled assault weapon. Hastis noticed a button next to the weapons pack intake; it was covered with a red safety cap. "What's this?" he asked pointing, the grenadier slapped his hand away.

" _Don't touch, it's the overcharge, we never facking use it, you'll get only 50 shots before the gun overheats and explodes, and with it's rate of fire you won't be able to count them."_

"Don't touch, understood." He nodded. The Grenadier clapped Hastis on the back and stood up, raising his own type 67 and firing short controlled bursts of light out across the way.

Hastis took a breath, and copied how the grenadier was holding his weapon, close across his chest, almost firing from the hip. Hastis stood and leaned out of cover slightly, looking out over the plaza; he could see Suliko and the squad escorting him. Hunkered down by the fountain, crouched low. They were taking fire; the fountain was falling apart all around them, bits and pieces chipping away from seemingly every angle. As if on cue when one of the grenadiers tried to crouch, to return fire, a squall of core blew out across the cobblestones, his chest seeming to cave inwards before blowing back outwards.

 _"_ _Man down! Consto's bought it!"_ A guardsman shouted.

Hastis heard a curse- he didn't know the language but the context was enough to guess. He glanced over the squad sergeant barking out his orders now. _"Ronnalo! Bracket that shooter! Break out the Heavy!"_

 _"_ _Sir!"_ A Calibrian with a heavy pack sapped into action, ripping the luggage from his person, he quickly assembled a tripod with an ease that spoke of years of practice. He called out and like quicksilver another grenadier slid into position next to him, his own pack coming unslung, a squat, short barreled, wide bore stubber coming together on the mount, a belt already being fed into the chamber. " _Stubbers' set! Paint the targets!"_ Ronnalo took aim, squatting down and mounting the tripod before a window, he held his finger over the trigger guard and shouted, _"Suppressing!"_ A thunderous stream of heavy lead bullets ripped out from the mounted weapon, a blitz of tracer fire streaming out over the plaza and rippling across the distant tower, ancient masonry was ripped apart by jacketed fifty caliber rounds. Hastis turned his attention back to the fight at hand, seeing that the sniper was more than dealt with, another few seconds of that guns ministrations would likely topple the construct and send the sharpshooter plummeting downwards. The Ecclisiarchy would have words about that, but Hastis saw no Commissar, and thusly didn't care.

 _"_ _Multiple stooger's pilin' in! Looks like we got ourselves a roit an' proppa' foight, me lads!"_

 _"_ _Try n' keep score!"_

 _"_ _First ta' thirty get's ah bugger me sister!"_

"Well," Hyrok commented, "At least they seem confidant."

The situation was harsh but not unmanageable. An influx of cultists wielding autoguns, clubs, and scatterguns pressed into the plaza but a steady stream of lasfire and grenades was seeing them off. Well-placed bursts of rippling laser light toppled mobs of heretics before they could gain momentum; madmen preachers and turncoat PDF officers had their torsos burst and bodies crumple as the grenadier on the stubber played his sights across them. Even with such an effective storm of fire, the lieutenant still was pinned down; his men and himself rolling into the fountain for cover, lying low, placing their shots over the lip of the fountain.

The Third squad sergeant snapped out orders in between bursts, he took close stock of the situation that Suliko was in, shaking his head at it, almost as if this was a common occurrence. _"Cover the bleedin' LT, someone toss a smoker!"_

 _"_ _Aye, Sir,"_ A grenadier with a particularly dented mask tore a dull grey canister off his webbing, thumbing the pin and handle. _"Throwing-"_ His torso disintegrated, like his heavy carapace armor wasn't even there. His limbs spread about the room and his lower half swayed for a moment before falling back, half his spine still sticking out, his intestines splattering about the floor.

 _"_ _Fack! What the- Facking Throne! Keeps yeh noggins down Lads!"_

The chugging report and consecutive thumping explosions rung in Hastis' ears, the sound all too familiar "Heavy Bolter!" Hastis shouted, he could tell the weapon at once, having seen what just a weapon can do to a man far more than what could be considered healthy, "Hyork, you idiot get down!" Hastis found himself again yanking the inquisitor back from the window, shoving him down, at once the pungent smell of smoke filled his nostrils, the grenade the guardsman had been holding still rolling around the gallery second floor, filling the area with its thick concealing fog.

" _Shit, shit! I can't see!"_

"Get that fucking-" Hastis, cursed, fumbling around on the floor, trying to locate the hissing smoke grenade before he deemed it useless, switching his priorities as half the wall next to him came away in a shower of masonry, he could almost feel the contrails of the heavy bolters rounds whizzing just over his neck. "Shit!" He rolled back, yelling out. "Guardsmen!" He put as much authority into his shouting as he could, praying that the Calibrians heard him "To me! Clear the room!" He yelled, crawling over a dead grenadier to get to the stairwell, pushing Lagorn and Hastis ahead of him along the way "This way!"

Hastis took the lead, he may have been undermining the NCO of the squad but the situation demanded rectifying. The building was getting demolished bit-by-bit, shoddy feudal world construction. Despite the addition of the Calibrians mounted stubber there was still too much fire coming in and not nearly enough return fire going out, and then there was that damned heavy bolter that was still hiding in the maelstrom of crossfire outside. How such a weapon could remain hidden up until now was beyond Hastis, something like that was mounted and ranged in beforehand, not brought up once it was convenient.

"Where's the fire coming from?"

 _"_ _I ain't gotta clue sir!"_ As if in answer, the street outside their exit exploded into a shower of miniature craters, the imperials dove for cover as fist sized holes tore through the wall and through the gallery, some of the mass reactive rounds detonating against more solid constructions and showering the guardsmen with shrapnel. _"Damnit!"_

"Hyork!" Hastis roared, "Something's really screwy about this!"

"It's not sorcery, if that's what you think it is!" The inquisitor shouted back.

"Does anyone have an eye on that gunnery?!" Hastis snapped, the two squads outside reported back, the NCO of the second relaying what they were seeing, Hastis had to ask them twice.

" _It's coming out of the facking ground!"_

"Are you shitting me?" Hastis shouted, his words quickly lost to the commotion erupting outside, he looked over the counter he had taken cover behind, only too see half of the street fall away into the ground.

 _"_ _By the earthly throne,"_ The war held its breath for a moment, the only sound in the plaza being the falling masonry of the crumbling buildings, and the sounds of metal grinding against stone as a dark dream from an age long past hauled itself up from the underground sewer system. Nearly eight feet tall, coated in black and bronze armor, and hefting a heavy bolter menaced with spikes of adamantium dipped bone, was a lost grandchild of the emperor, warped with dark power.

There was one name that rippled through the fear-vacated minds of those mortals who now bore witness to its thudding emergence from the under-street sewers.

Traitor Astartes

...

AN/ **GIVE ME WINGS**


	2. The Orphans II

AN/ **Look, I normally shitpost drunkenly at the start and at the end of each chapter, but this time I have some bad news. I don't want to ruin anything just yet, so enjoy this before I lay it all out at the end where I need to tell you about the future of this series. Please try not to judge too harshly about what I have to say there is all I ask. Anyways, sorry in advance, but please try to enjoy what I've written so far. I worked pretty dang hard on this chapter.**

...

 _Cruelty is the only constant in this Galaxy. There can be no hope in its hellish confines. No hope at all. Yet, even with this truth about them, the honest men of the Imperium fights on._

 _They fight against the darkness that besets the Imperium's borders, and, sometimes they strike out at the darkness. They bring it to its knees, and with mortal, human hands of flesh and blood and faith, they savage the darkness with a hate born of spite and anguish._

 _They make the Darkness suffer as they have suffered, and when that darkness tries to escape they drag it back down to wallow in the murk of their mortality._

 _For as long as they can, they keep the darkness pinned- before it inevitably escapes and the cycle repeats- they make it know what fear is._

Men are dying. Men are screaming, gore bursts across the plaza like overripe fruit. The heavy bolter thuds in succession as the Chaos Marine wielding it walks its barrel left and right across the cover of the veteran guardsmen. A Calibrian Sergeant shouts out what everyone already knows. _"Facking Heretic Astartes! Eyes front! Eyes front!"_

 _"_ _The fuck did he come from?"_ The grenadier next to Hastis shouts, seeking shelter behind an all too flimsy brick wall.

 _"_ _Guns! Guns! Guns!"_ Two squads of the Calibrian Grenadiers open fire, leaning out of cover, hosing their assault-type weapons over the hulking frame of the monstrous chaos Astartes. The sound of heat diffusing off of the chaos marine's armor sounded almost like laughing to Hastis.

"Facking fantastic, this is just _facking fantastic!_ " Hastis snarls, he grips his lasgun tightly, he bears his teeth as he does away with the warning the grenadier had given him, and uncaps the overcharge stud and presses it ruefully, almost at once the weapon heats up in his hands as it prepares to fire.

 _"_ _Take that facker out now!"_ Suliko, roaring over the vox loudly enough that Hastis can hear it both over the combead and naturally. _"Get facking Voltair up here now!"_

Hastis adds his weapon into the mix, the grenadier next to him moves in synch with him, they both have their guns shouldered and trigger studs pressed by the time they draw a line on the chaos warrior. Hastis will not forget the sight of a hulking black armored warrior, laden in spikes and skulls, his armor seeming to glow a dull hellish red as countless lasbeams stich over his frame. He watches his own supercharged red beams of heat paint across the warriors helmet as it turns to look at him, the barrel of his weapon following slowly- completely unconcerned with the wave of energy washing over it.

Hastis' eyes widen as he find himself staring down the bore of a Heavy Bolter. Ice fills his veins and with a curse he grabs the grenadier next to him. "Down!" He shouts, moments later the walls erupts, splinters of stone riddle his back, ripping up his skin and armor. "Phask! Shit!" He curses, but the grenadier pulls him by the arm, hauling him behind a yet unmolested section of wall.

" _Thanks for the save. Much obliged, sir-"_

"Shut up and run!" Explosions bracket the wall they cower behind, each blast punching holes in their cover as they try to reposition; try to find some form of shelter. The Chaos marine is toying with them, placing each shot just behind them- the traitor astartes auspex clearly feeding him the telemetry of their position despite their cover. Hastis knows this much, and it infuriates him with just how helpless he is. If he could just get a bit closer- get a bead on the bastard with his revolver…

 _"_ _Sir- Get to a better position- we'll draw his fire!"_ The shout came over the vox, Hastis managed a quick enough glance to see a pair of objects soar out from a heretic palisade behind the Chaos Marine, the underslung grenade launchers of the Calibrians did more than draw the Astarte's attention. The loud _Thwat!_ Of an armor piercing Krak grenade saw to the chaos marine doubling over, staggered forwards and roaring in anger, he twists around, raises his weapon.

Another soft thump, from the Astarte's right this time, coming from the upper floors of an adjacent building. The Calibrian Grenadiers had scattered and spread out, and now rained as much fire as they could from every angle. The corrupted Astartes twisted- faster than what should be possible for such a large, heavily armored creature- and the krak grenade slipped past just over its shoulder- the chaos Astartes rakes a barrage of fire across the rooftop of the offending position, stone and wood splinters- Hastis sees a red mist with it, another dead Calibrian.

"Hastis!" Hyork, Hastis saw the inquisitor, hunkered down in a small butchers shop, Lagorn with him. "Over here!"

Hastis nodded to the Calibrian next to him, they sprinted across the open street- every footstep seeming to take a thousands seconds before the next- an eternity exposed to the perdition of the Chaos Astartes. Hastis dove through the window, the grenadier through the open door.

"Where the Fack is your Tank?" Lagorn shouted at once, "Why ain't it up here mowing that bastard down!?"

"I don't rightly know!" The grenadier tore off his helmet and face mask, his deeply tanned face was smeared with blood from a bad gash across his forehead, Hastis can see part of the mask the grenadier wore lodged into his skull. "The Lt, hadta' have voxed 'em by now, I don't rightly know!"

"Fack it! I'll do it!" Lagorn shouts, activating his Vox Caster, Hastis peers out the window- all too aware of just how bad a position this shop was, the heavy bolter could punch right through, but the Astartes traitor was occupied, thinning the herd, demolishing the positions of the Calibrians, almost purposefully ignoring Suliko and the squad holed up in the fountain at the center of the plaza.

"SHIT." Low gothic, Hastis whipped around, staring at Lagorn who was fiddling with the arcane instruments of his Voxcaster, the readouts on his wrist mounted cogitator seeming to inspire dread in his eyes. " _SHIT_." He repeated, vehemently he smacked the bulky green unit on his back.

"What's it?" The Calibrian snapped, on the verge of panic but training and intensive conditioning managing to hold him steady. His hands methodically ran over his lasgun, loading a Krak grenade into the undermount launcher and replacing the drum-mag on autopilot.

"I can't get a Facking signal. I don't understand, everything's fine but- but I can't get a damn signal on the long range."

"What's that mean?" The grenadier asks. "You can't vox the Colonel?"

"Far more than that, I can't contact any-facking-one outside of fifty facking meters!"

"They're targeting our long range communications, jamming them." Hyork said. Hastis couldn't help but note how calm he was in this situation, given how unfocussed he was just minutes before. The old Inquisitor clasped his cane with both hands. "We'll unravel this later. I'll handle this traitor."

"Wot?" The grenadier raised a brow, looking to the old weather-beaten inquisitor in a dirty overcoat. "You mean ta fight that big-bastard?" He shook his head, incredulous, "No dis'r'spect lord, but that jus' ain't possible."

"No, he's right." Hastis said. "He's the only chance we have at the moment, we're going to have to cover him though."

"Glad to have your confidence for once, Hastis." Hyork said, standing, he flicks his cane; two gleaming adamantium edges sprout from wither side, a field of visible power coalescing on either one. "This wont be at all pleasant, however."

"You going to do that thing? Sir?" Lagorn asks. He stows his equipment as quickly as possible. "That a bright idea with all the cultists around?"

"Only chance we have, as I said."

"The hell you talkin' bout." The Grenadier curses something in his native tongue, he stands as they do, grabbing his helmet from his lap he tries to put it on, the broken strap only sees that it falls to the floor. It clatters to the ground, coming to a rest next to a boot.

A hand, larger than that of a normal man, reaches down and picks it up.

"Please stay down inquisitor." The Marine places the guardsman's helmet back on, making sure it stays. "I shall remedy this." A carapace armored marine- appearing from seemingly nowhere, strides past Hastis, Hyork, Lagorn and the Calibrian, he turns the silvered staff in his hands, its ends smeared with blood that is splattered across his armor- cratered and broken in places.

"Facking where did-" Hastis doesn't have time to finish his curses before the Scout is walking out of the butcher shop, ducking under the doorframe.

He'd only seen a brief glimpse of them fighting in the trenches yesterday. He'd only thought that what he had seen was a trick of his concussed mind. He had dearly hoped that it was only that. Now his breath caught in his throat and he tried hard to breathe, watching what follows.

The Marine, the one with the long silver staff strolls out into the shell cratered and ruined plaza, calmness about his person that is at odds with the destruction before him. The Lieutenant and the grenadiers in the fountain look up, staring as he approaches. The Marine looks down at them, contemplating them for a moment. "Stay down." He tells them, and the chaos marine turns- seeing him for the first time.

The two Astartes, one loyal and one traitor, locked eyes upon each other. The corrupt counterpart growls something, words distorted through a snarling, twisted vox grill. The Traitor aims his weapon, the heavy bolter seeming to rumble as it takes in the new target. The chaos marine fires.

The scout marine _Moves_.

Yenald- Hastis remembers his name now- The scout masters movements become sharper, more focused, his outline seeming to blur and shift as bright streaks of fire dance around him, his staff becoming a glinting silver shriek that whipped through the air like a shining star.

The Chaos marine hoses the ground around Yenald, bolts the size of his fist nearly grazing the scout marine. At one point Hastis thinks he sees Yenald slap a bolt round out of the air with his stave. And then they are in a melee, the scoutmaster leaping the last few feet and planting his boot against the chaos marines' helmet and kicking off, flipping backwards and striking out with his staff. The long metal pole slapping against the chaos marines less armored wrist joints, forcing the traitor to involuntarily drop his weapon.

The opposite of the staffs end swings up and punches into the left lens of the Chaos Astarte's helmet like a javelin, all before Yenald hits the ground. The chaos marine screams in pain- a sound that sounds like an alpha grox but twice as deep. Yenald rips his staff free and a torrent of blood sprays out in response. He sways under the wildly thrown punch of the chaos Astartes, ducking under another fist and then another, the chaos marine is furious, enraged at this injury. Yet he cannot connect, Yenald steps back, ducks, leans and sidesteps each and every blow the chaos marine tries to inflict upon him.

Yenald seems almost leisurely in his next movement but it is faster than Hastis can see, there is a blur of motion between the traitor astartes legs and then Yenald is jamming his staff between the backpack and back of the chaos marine and levering it away. A shower of sparks accompanied the sound of groaning ceramite, the backpack generator tearing partially off, cables and tubes snaking wildly. He wrenches his staff free and then he spins, jumping into the air and twisting around, grabbing the extreme end of his staff he brings it around with devastating force- it connects with the back of the chaos marines left knee.

There is what seems to be an explosion as fragments of Ceramite and hardened rubber shatter across the plaza alongside blood, muscle and bone. The Chaos Marine screams again- the sound ripping from his vox, Yenald skips back and away, the chaos Astartes falling to one knee, his left leg below the knee hanging limply, barley connected by sinew and ligaments.

The groaning of plasteel and ceramite against rock fills the plaza as the Chaos marine turns to regard Yenald with his one good eye, baleful hate piercing out in an almost physical manner. In response Yenald merely flicks his staff, oils and blood slicking off of its length. He removes a cloth from a pouch and begins cleaning his weapon. After a few moments he looks up, regarding the guardsmen who stare over and from behind their cover, stunned and uncertain.

Yenald puts the cloth away, and speaks. "Kill it."

Suliko is the first to stand. He levels his laspistol at the crippled chaos marine. The lieutenant is a picture of rage, with blood and entrails splattered across his armor. "All squads! Burn this filth away at once!"

The air burned red as lasguns snapped to shoulders, and laser beams as fast as light scoured the traitor Astarte's armor. A single burst was all they needed to home in on the weak points- the joints, the lenses- the cracks in its armor. The Chaos marine was growling like some mad beast, raising its arms to cover its head as the overwhelming volley of lasfire rippled across its body once again.

Without fear of reprisal, Hastis stepped out from cover, closing the distance between him and the chaos astartes. He's only been this close to one of their kind once in the past on a now dead rock of a world. He can remember the chilling glares of their ruby-eyed lenses as they slaughtered his comrades. Even incapacitated like this, the traitor before him still bore an aura of unprecedented menace. He took careful aim; lining up his shot with the revolver, thumbing back the safety, sighting in and pulling the trigger- an overcharged hotshot lasbeam cratered the chaos marine's elbow- punching through ceramite dating back to the Horus Heresy itself. The Heretic Astarte's arm went limp- hanging by a thread of tissue. The chaos Marine was roaring in pain, shouting in anger at being forced to kneel to mere mortals who slaved themselves to a corpse-god.

Hastis retargeted and fired, his next shot blasting through the rubberized joint of the chaos marines other elbow, blowing the limb clean off. For a moment, Hastis sighted down the length of his revolver, focusing on the traitor's helmet. For a moment, he wanted to pull the trigger. He didn't. He wouldn't kill this thing with a single shot. That would be too quick, too painless. He thumbed the safety on and holstered his gun. Suliko had other ideas.

"Burn this cretin!" Suliko snarled, the first platoons flamers advanced, pilot lights flickering, they doused the ancient Astarte's in burning promethium. The cracks and rents opened up in the marine's armor letting serpents of fire inside to scorch flesh that hadn't seen the light in over ten thousand years.

The weapon specialists hosed the marine down, giving the fiend a full one third of their tanks before muzzling their flames. By now the power-armored warrior was a burning effigy, writing on the ground in an attempt to put itself out. Several guardsmen backed away, everyone could only watch as the chaos astartes slowly burnt to death, this thing more a creature of the warp than anything living.

Engulfed in flames, its flesh and bones blackened as its pulsating organs liquefied and then turned to ash; even still, it still took a full three minutes for the chaos warrior to die.

Hastis consulted his chronometer on his wrist. It had only been four minutes since they entered this plaza. Twelve Grenadiers, the elite of the 76th and veterans of many battlefields were dead and even more were wounded in less than three minutes, all because of this single creature.

…

"Traitor Astartes confirmed in the AO, that's a confirmed Traitor Astartes neutralized in grid…" Hastis watches Lagorn talk into the vox speaker. Hunkered down in the back of Voltair, furiously trying again and again to punch through the miasmic jamming interference by hooking his vox set up with that of the **Crassus Armored Assault Transport's** own vox array.

"Anything yet?" Hastis asked, sitting down next to Lagorn. The Vox specialist had been having a rough go at the task his superiors had given him. Whatever the Chaos forces were using to interfere with their long range and medium range communications it was damned powerful.

"No luck so far, sir. I've managed to boost the squad coms by several degrees but anything more and it turns to static. It's the best I can do. As for contacting anyone else, absolutely no luck whatsoever. We're going to have to use runners."

"'ts what I was afraid you'd say." Hastis griped. "Course, runners usually have to know where they're running too first. Any idea where the other Calibrians are?"

"The Lieutenant said that the first company would be spearheading the assault on the citadel, the second company would be covering each flank, while their third brought up the rear with the big guns in case they needed to retreat."

"That was the plan, yes." Hastis nodded. "As you can see, the plan has seemingly gone down the shitter."

"With that being the case, I have no idea where any of the other forces could be. Some may be moving on schedule, others could be holed up fighting it out with cultists and traitors. We have no picture of the battle-line as we are now."

"We could be getting flanked an not even no it. How's that for a thought?" Hastis grinned.

"Pleasant, sir. Pleasant." Lagorn grimaced. "Anything else you need, sir?"

"Not at the moment, keep at it, maybe you'll figure something out."

Hastis left the Crassus Armored Assault Transport. Voltair had been called up once the fighting had ceased and made its dominance clear, its guns overlooking the plaza from the center, the Calibrians spread out in a loose perimeter around it. The Guardsmen were making sure to keep as much distance from the fallen traitor astartes as possible, the only ones daring to approach it being the Space Marine and Hyork.

Hastis was to join them, making his way over he glanced down at the burned out husk of what was once humanities foremost breed of champion.

Its armor was blackened from flame, smoke rolled out from its broken lenses and the rents in its armor. Even though it lay still and lifeless, there was an aura about it. A menacing spell that shrouded its final resting place. It was an unholy thing, menacing and cruel.

Hyork glanced up as Hastis approached; he was kneeling next to the armor, scraping away the soot from a pauldron to reveal what lay beneath. "Iron Warriors." Hyork spoke softly. "Traitor Legionary." He couldn't keep an ounce of dread from his voice.

Hastis didn't know much, he was only an acolyte, but he did know that the Iron Warriors were one of the eighteen legions forged by the emperor during the great crusade, and one of the nine to turn traitor. They were supposedly siege specialists, experts of cracking open enemy defenses. It was a surprise to see one on the defensive. It was a surprise to see one at all, more importantly. The Iron Warriors were supposed to be dead now.

The Shattering had seen to almost every single Traitor Legion being either vaporized or slaughtered along with their loyalist counterparts. Then again, no one had a clear number on just how many of them there were in the first place. It was chilling to think that the losses they sustained might in fact not even be all that significant. Hastis shook the thought away. If there was a singular constant in this galaxy, it was that there everyone had it bad

Yenald was stoic, not saying anything but the disdain in his expression was clear. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but did not know quite how to put it into words. Eventually he composed himself, less frustrated it would seem.

He gripped his staff with both hands, staring down at the husk before his feet. "I lost five brothers earlier." He turned, looking to face the Inquisitor. "Myself, and five other scouts had made considerable headway. We were clearing the way for you to advance your armored units. We held positions and tried to contact your command elements to advance your tanks to our position. We could not force the signal through. The traitors ambushed us from underground. Only I survived."

"Oh. I see." Hyork nodded. Solemn. "I am sorry."

"The traitors are dead." Yenald turned away. "Nothing more needs to be spoken of it."

…

"Do you have anything yet?" Colonel Deov Vestalt was not a happy man. Sweat beaded off his toned body, running down his bare chest. The fusion heart of the _Divine Judicator_ was a powerful thing that supplied the tank with the golden light of the God-Emperor and allowed it to smash his foes, but by the Throne was it hot. The close confines within the airtight and cramped armored compartments of the Tank did not make it any more bearable, and neither did the inclusion of several sweating tankers. What's more, was the fact that he had lost contact with the entirety of his first company.

Down to his left next to the drivers compartment was his communications officer. She was working at the cogitator before her, the pale green light of the screen reflecting off the sweat on her brow. "I can't regain contact with the advance elements." She said, readjusting her bulky earphones. "Second company is reporting a loss of contact with first company lead elements as well. If this keeps up..." she was holding her panic in check, like the elite tanker she was. Even so, he could see it clearly enough.

"The astartes?" He asked. "How do they fair?"

She shook her head. "The jamming is putting a shaft in any and all long range communications," She said. "Nothing I can do."

Deov slammed his fist against his chair, gritting his teeth. "Clever facking heretics, they're trying to isolate us."

"Too late to lament now, Sir, do we continue the assault?" The vox officer asked.

It was a good question. One he didn't want to make but had to, regardless. "If we pull back now, we'll be leaving the first to die, they'll be slaughtered without the second company securing the flanks…"

"But if we do advance we'll be pushing in blind."

Deov cursed, he knew that much as well. But he couldn't just sit and do nothing, not while he was still in command. "Damn it all, send the signal and get third company back on station at once. Have them watch for blue flares. Send word back to the fourth and fifth companies if at all possible, I want them setting up to receive us for a general withdrawal. We may have to do just that if this turns as bad as I think it will. Tell the third that I want them ready to shell the entire AO, collateral be damned."

"Aye, sir."

…

"They're charging again!"

Shards of masonry, ripped from the walls by high-caliber impacts showered down onto them. Snarling like some wild beast, Hastis returned fire with punitive impatience. The lasgun was growing hot in his hands with every squeeze of the trigger and storm of heat-light. Six bodies, scarred with runic sigils hit the ground in the street ahead, adding to the already massed pile of smoldering flesh as the type-67 smashed craters across their bare chests, boiling away flesh with explosive consequences. He let off the fully automatic burst and flicked the firing stud for the underslung shotgun, the scattershot attachment barked with a plume of fire and the tight spread of serrated buckshot tore through a seventh cultist and out the other side. The repetitive thud next to Hastis kicked up a notch, a massive, bulky weapon bucked in its cradle as it spat out seventy millimeter, fist sized shells in rapid succession. Lagorn fought to keep the barrel down as he stitched a line of explosives across a horde of charging madmen, blowing off limbs and cratering torsos.

"Lagron!" Hastis screams of the riotous cacophony. "Don't you facking dare let up on that bolter!" Lagorn doesn't respond, gritting his teeth instead and pumping out yet another barrage of death from his position, fighting hard to keep his nerves from breaking, the only thing keeping him from cracking was that he was not alone. Under just as much duress as him, on either side of him, behind a crudely built palisade of broken masonry and cracked stones, the Calibrian first platoon Grenadiers are firing everything they have. A fourth and fifth and sixth wave of mindless heathens already assaulting down the narrow street before them, their skin blistering and popping as another wave of lasfire washed over them, the bodies in the front shielding the ones in the back long enough to inch closer and closer with every assault.

From above, a burst of autogun fire smashed into the already chipped walls, sparks arched off of several grenadiers, their heavy frontal carapace taking the impact but staggering them back, their aim is thrown off for a second, the disciplined volleys of fire broken for a split second. Hastis reacts nearly on autopilot. Ripping a grenade from his webbing, biting the pin and hurling the frag into the seething mass of humanoid corruption spilling down upon them. The frag grenade tumbles amongst eh mass of bodies, its explosion almost lost amongst the shrieks and roars of the cultists, the only sign of its passing being the sudden hole that erupts in their lines as shrapnel rips through yielding flesh, tearing off limbs and goring open a hole in their ranks that gives the Imperials enough breathing room to react and shift their fire, but only for a second. " _Balcony!_ _Balcony!_ " A grenadier shouts, shifting his fire, hosing down an overlook further up the street, a gaggle of heretics leaning out, firing blindly with their rifles in an attempt to put Lagorn and his heavy bolter down.

"I see them." A voice, deeper than the battle around them replies with assured calm. It's the Marine, Yenald. From behind cover he shoulders his oversized long barreled bolter, sighting down the scope he pulls the trigger twice with effortless calm. The report of his weapon is deceptively soft, nothing like the barking heavy bolter under Lagorns' control. The Heretics fall apart, bursting into gory mist. "Neutralized." He announces, and without a moment of pause he returns to punching head sized holes in the chests of heretic leaders among the rabble. It wasn't enough. The chugging of Lagorns heavy bolter is almost eclipsed, a storm of flesh continuing to scream towards them, Hastis feels his gut drop out from underneath him as the ripple of light from the barrel of his lasgun sputters out- he glances at the meter on the drum pack, its empty. He looks at the closing hoard. He doesn't have the time to reload.

" _Hit the bleedin' deck!"_

Hastis and the grenadiers drop to the ground, the marine steps to the side, Lagorn does not move, he doesn't let up even as everyone else pulls back and hunkers down. He's low enough to avoid the burning twin pikes of promethium that jet overhead and into the rabble, the Calibrian flamer specialists arcing their emissions over the heads of their comrades from behind. It ends all too quickly, the fuel tapering out; the deluge cut short, leaving a burning hellscape ahead of them that would end all too soon.

" _That's all that we could siphon."_ One of the flamer specialists pants out between breaths, shrugging off the heavy, armored canisters from his back. They hit the ground, resonating emptily. " _Votair still has plenty left in reserve but getting it out is a damned pain."_

"The rearguard still holding?" Hastis asks at once, surveying the street ahead of them, the charred corpses are at least four feet high by this point; the stone buildings are scorched black.

" _Holding strong. Votair has the entire plaza locked down. The Lt is considering sending runners."_

"Fuel up again, as much as you can this time, they shouldn't regroup for a solid two minutes." Hastis commands, the two flame-troopers salute, lugging their tanks back down the road. Hastis looks down at Lagorn. The Vox Specialist was covered with corpse soot, his face nearly blackened with ash and smoke. Oil from the heavy Bolter taken from the back of the Crassus was scalding through his gloves and he looked exhausted. He was shaking, taking in the sheer amount crumpled bullets littering the ground just in front of his position in a break in the fortifications.

" _You're doing solid, lad."_ One of the grenadiers says, nodding down to Lagorn. " _Knew you had the scones."_

"How are you holding up, Lagorn?" Hastis asked. Lagorn shook his head.

"I'm a bloody tech specialist and Vox operator, not a gunnery corporal."

"I know, but we're short on hands." Hastis sighs. "Not sure how long we can keep this up."

"The worst is yet to come." The Marine was behind them, practically standing in the open, towering over all present. His expression was dour but taciturn as he scanned the battlefield before them. "They seek to wear you down before destroying you."

It had been nearly ten minutes since they moved out from the plaza. The Lieutenant was well aware of the Vox interference, and the prospect of traitor astartes was one that could not be ignored without the proper fire support in place to deal with them. Arrangements were underway for the first platoon to withdraw in short order and establish contact with the Colonel when the first wave of heretics assaulted from behind them.

Unlike the unorganized resistance from before, these creatures were of sterner stock and refused to break no matter how may were put down in the ensuing violence. Suliko took charge of the situation, ordering a fighting advance further into the city and up the narrow streets. Votair brought up the rear, reversing uphill, heavy flamers blistering with heat, keeping the heretics from advancing up behind them as it used its own hull and guns to plug the gap into the narrow roadways.

The Grenadiers took defensive postures facing forwards, and soon enough the expected attack materialized, and was summarily repulsed, as was the second, and the third, but the flamers were low on fuel. The fourth attack saw to the heretics jumping down from rooftops, or trying to break through walls and buildings to reach them from the flanks. Suliko spread the third and fourth squads into the buildings with breaching charges to head off any further attempts, and had a heavy bolter dismounted from the Crassus and brought to the front to act as fire support. Lagorn was given the task of manning it, a task he did not enjoy.

"Glad to know you're a bloody optimist." Hastis snarks in response to Yenald. He looked over his shoulder; back down the road at where Hyork and Suliko were. Hyork was pacing, tapping his cane against he broken up road being generally useless while Suliko was in the back of the Crassus, filled with dead and wounded, he was still trying to get the vox to work, unceasing in his endeavor. Even with the modifications Lagorn made he wasn't getting through to anyone.

Hastis wasn't going to lie to himself, the situation was decidedly grim, and looking around him he could tell that the Calibrians thought the same. They were good at not showing it openly but Hastis could see the various tells and tics that shown through the cracks in their otherwise calm exterior. The constant checking and re-checking of laspack charges, the looks over shoulders, the drumming of fingers on barrels, shifting pouches around for easier access and then shifting them back into a more shielded position and then repeating this every few minutes, staring at the flames ahead of them, wondering for just how long they will last, and when the next charge will begin. Hastis knew this, because he was doing the exact same thing.

Even so, he had to admit. The Calibrians -or at least their first company vets- were solid soldiers. He took the relative silence of the moment to grab his canteen, leaning his lasgun against the palisade and looking down for a moment, unscrewing the cap and-

 _"_ _Contact!"_

The lasbolt cut through his canteen, turning the water inside to steam before punching into the front of his flakvest. The resulting explosion of superheated steam and the fusing of the carboplastic weave of his flakvest sent him tumbling backwards. His canteen had saved him- dampening the full force of the lasbolt before it hit his flakvest. It still hurt, giving him a third degree burn all across his chest with flakweave fusing to his burnt skin. In the seconds where he was falling backwards, in the time that seemed to grind to a halt as the ground raced up to meet him. He was all too aware of the beams of light and storm of bullets that were whipping around him. His hands were scalded by the steam but it didn't hurt, he was also aware that his canteen had likely saved him, dampening the lasbolt just enough so that his flakvest could absorb it. He didn't even care about the storm of weapons fire as time reasserted itself and he hit the ground, watching the tracers of bullets and beams of light soar overhead, contrasted against the dark cloudy sky.

Lasbeams. Hastis sat low against the palisade, using his teeth to wrap his hands in bandages torn out from his first-aid pouch. It wasn't uncommon for cultists to get their hands on lasrifles, but they weren't all that common, spread out amongst he cultist ranks, with autoguns and stubbers being the main weapon of choice. The only fighting force in the galaxy that had the ability to serve up as much lasfire as was scouring overhead right now was the Imperial guard, and Renegades.

Traitor Guardsmen. The thought chilled Hastis. They'd already seen a Traitor Astartes today. What's to say he didn't have an entourage?

Lasbeams sung overhead, forcing even the heavily armored Grenadiers into cover, Lagorns' nerves broke in the face of such a sudden and overwhelming torrent of suppressing fire, he rolled to the right into cover, shielding his head, Hastis could not blame him, he'd do the same, any sane man would. Even the Space Marine was forced to disengage, he may have been fast enough to calmly step between bullets, but even a space marine wasn't faster than a laser- the scorch marks riddling his carapace armor was proof of that.

"Traitor Guardsmen." He calmly explained, looking at Hastis, telling him what he already had deduced. "This bodes poorly."

" _Don't let 'em toss' frags!"_ Sulikos voice galvanized Hastis into action. He was a Guardsman first, an inquisitorial lackey second. Above all else, he was a damned good guardsman. He obeyed orders, especially if they would keep him alive. Hastis leans over, reaches out and grabs the firing handle of the heavy bolter, doing his best to keep himself in cover while he does so. He presses down on the firing stud; the heavy bolter jumps in its cradle, firing wildly. Hastis tries his best to blind fire the belt fed weapon, not going for accuracy so much as looking for volume of fire, counter-suppression.

" _Lobbin' me-last incendiary!"_ A grenadier shouts, ripping a long cylindrical canister with orange taping off his belt, he pulls the pin and pops the cap, not waiting a second more he overhands it over the palisade. " _Me_ _crispies_ _goin' out!"_ He cries. The canister sparks and pops mid arc, hissing violently as it erupts into white flame, blistering white-hot smoke billows outwards, small burning embers of Thermanite in the clouds that scoured miniature craters in the stone road. Normally used in close confines in order to suffocate enemies out of bunkers or tunnels, it worked just as well in the narrow streets ahead of their position. It stopped the majority of the Traitor Guardsmen long enough for a Grenadier to take over for Hastis, settling in on the Heavy Bolter, checking the current belt and then laying down a focused storm of suppressive fire into the smoke, the other Grenadiers following suit with their lasguns, a few even ramming the last of their frag-rounds into their underslung attachments and sending several rounds of explosives up the street, doing their hardest to keep the traitors at range.

"Nice call on the grenade." Hastis nodded to the Grenadier responsible for halting the charge.

" _Was savin' that one jus' in case somthin' loik this happened."_ The Grenadier looks to his companion on the heavy bolter. " _Betta' get that belt changed, Juna."_

"Wait," The marine, Yenald, snapped up his stalker bolter, sighting in through the scope, he then did something that made Hastis' blood run cold. He swore.

It wasn't in any language Hastis had ever heard before, it was something guttural, feral in nature, but the emotion was more than clear. Something bad was coming.

"Guardsman. Get into cover." Yenald bit the words out, snapping to his shoulder his bolter roared in quick succession as he worked the trigger, smoking shells clattering to the street. Hastis turned around, for only a second; it was enough to see a shape emerge from the fiery smoke, burning embers billowing around its massive bulk.

Four horns sprouted from its helmet and curled back over, a snarling grill mouthpiece made up of splintered bone and curved fangs. Warplate stained pure red and black with ivory thorns curling upwards out of the joints and easily more than four-dozen freshly harvested skulls hung from its waist. It was carrying an axe larger than Hastis. It broke into a full charge at the sight of them; fire seemed to erupt from its lenses- a burning rune was etched across its twin pauldrons.

Yenald shot it in the head. Hastis watched the bolt ricochet off, the monster somehow jerking and angling its helmet in just such a perfect manner as to deflect the mass reactive round. The three further bolts that Yenald puts into the monsters chest didn't so much as slow the charging traitor, a Chaos Astartes, twisted and warped with power. Behind it, the traitor guardsmen charged, rallying to their dark champion.

Yenald stopped shooting.

Thirty meters.

Hastis dropped his lasgun.

Twenty Meters.

He grabbed the butt of his revolver.

Ten Meters.

It clears the holster.

The axe cleaves downwards.

He's nowhere near quick enough.

The silver staff intercedes right in front of his eyes just as the axe falls, it took all of his willpower not to freeze as the giant appeared before him, and now he was blinded as sparks ignited in front of his face, a powerful hand grabbing him by the shoulder and throwing him backwards. Yenald took his place, the silver blur of his weapon spinning around and surging back up to block another strike from the Heretic Astartes.

Indignity and anger surge within Hastis at the treatment, his hand still gripping his revolver. He aims, sighting down the barrel. His finger rests on the trigger but he can't pull it. A swirling melee rips apart the remainder of the palisade with its ferocity, shapes blurring together into a haze of silver, red, green, and black. He knows that he can't shoot without the risk of hitting Yenald and blowing a fist sized hole in his back. He shifts right, and pulls the trigger- the first Heretic Guardsman to reach the ruined palisade drops without a head, as does the second and third.

The Grenadiers scramble backwards; the one called Juna abandons the heavy bolter just in time, clearing the line of fire for the other Grenadiers that fall back to preplanned positions, alcoves and shop windows, firing as they retreat, thinning the onrushing storm of their once loyal counterparts

For the second time in under a minute someone grabs Hastis by the shoulder. Hastis doesn't need to look to know that it's Lagorn, the ever-faithful Vox Operator hammering away with his side arm, the laspistol's barrel glows red hot. "I'd say it's time to fall back, sir." He grunts.

"I can stand, ease off!" Hastis snaps, he drops another two traitors as they break cover from behind mounds of dead cultists. A third one has his torso cratered and then Hastis is reloading, a swift, fluid, practiced motion that ejects the spent cartridges and replaces them with fresh ones in just under a single second. He's had all his life to perfect the maneuver.

The duel is the center of attention; the dividing line- bullets and lasbolts streak around them, punishing any who would try to break from cover long enough for an enemy to get a bead on them. Sparks and blood both shed off from the maelstrom that the two Astartes are creating, Hastis can't make out a single detail, the speed of which Yenald and the Chaos champion are moving is far beyond anything his own human eyes can make out. Streaks and blurs of color and motion, the reverberations of impacts on metal or a missed strike on stone thundered up his legs. He had always hoped he wouldn't have to see combat like this again. It was that feeling, that feeling of helplessness and futility. What was the point of resisting when you could be so easily swept aside by a being that might as well be a demigod in comparison?

He already knows the answer. It's the same answer all guardsmen know.

Yenald skids backwards, boots grinding against the stonework road; he is nursing a shallow cut across the front of his carapace armor. It had been split horizontally by some great, rending gouge, had it been any deeper it would have had struck flesh, it would have likely been enough to kill even him. Yenald doesn't let it affect him; he has his staff raised, ready to continue the fight. The blood mad chaos astartes is just as eager, behind him the traitor guardsmen roar, seeing their champion land the first blow. Hastis see's his opening, Yenald is out of the way, he has his hand on his revolver and the traitor is close enough- maybe if he can put a shot on his hand he can tip the odds in Yenalds direction-

The Chaos Astartes topples over, hitting the ground with a resounding clang of metal on stone. Hastis stares up from over his gun sights, incredulous, he stares at his revolver for a brief moment, than to Lagorn, and then Yenald who is unfazed as ever. He catches a glimpse of the briefest of shadows dropping from a balcony far up the carnage road, and suddenly the Traitor Guardsmen are falling in silent swathes one after the other. Materializing from windows, from around street corners, from behind walls and out of alleyways, were marines, in the same color and pattern of armor as Yenald.

"Damned glory whores," Hastis sniffs, holstering his weapon.

"They can whore all the glory they want, if you ask me." Suliko, the Calibrian platoon leader, limping up the street, nursing a deep cut along his right arm, it looks like it was just barley hanging on. Hastis takes a moment to look down the street; the Traitor Guard must've struck there as well. "Bastards hit us with Chimera's."

"No sympathy for you here." Hastis nods to the fallen chaos Astartes. Suliko seems to instinctively flinch at the sight of it; Hastis doesn't begrudge him for it. "I'd would've gladly swapped places with you." Hastis can now see a ragged series of holes in the back of the Heretic Astartes helmet, blood already dried leaked through with bits of bone. One of the Marines is hefting a stupidly large sniper rifle across his chest. He's conversing with Yenald.

"The Old Man?" Hastis asks Suliko. "He survives?"

"The Inquisitor?"

"Him."

"He's perfectly fine, you don't have to worry." Suliko assured him.

Hastis grunted in response. "I see. What about the other platoons? Any luck with getting through to them?"

"They are still alive." Yenald interrupts them, having closed the distance with that damned silent gait of his. "My brothers have reports of them throughout the city."

Suliko jumps on this at once, "Can you tell me anything more? Dispositions, casualties, designation?"

"I cannot." Yenald replies. "My brothers were focused on regrouping and locating myself."

"Can you at least take us to them? We need to regroup."

"That is possible." Yenald nods.

"Still might have a chance," Suliko mutters, slipping into his native tongue. He clicks his combead. "First platoon, mount up at once, we've got a war to win."

…

Plasteel and thunder, power and pride, a storm of eruptions that shake the earth with every concussive thud belting out high explosive vengeance that turns bodies into clouds of red mist. It is a line of steel and faith against an endless tide of madmen and heretics. Spaced apart by a dozen equal meters and thundering away with every weapon available, they made an impenetrable wall of Imperial glory. It was a scene straight of an administratum propaganda reel: an armored squadron of Leman Russ's holding the line against an endless horde of degenerate rabble.

Colored in dulled desert hues of tan and brown with streaks of yellow, five Exterminator Pattern Leman Russ tanks sat within the ruins of a once grand pavilion that overlooked an urban forest that the ruling nobility used for courtly hunts and other ceremonies. For whatever purpose it had served before, it was now gone, the marble estate at the top of a raised knoll had been blown to pieces by rockets and missiles, and now was utilized as an entrenched position for the Imperial tanks. The fields before them were a killing ground that the armored beasts lorded over against hordes of screaming infantry.

The Exterminators had their twin barrels depressed as far as they could go, the twin sponson mounted heavy bolters angle out away from then main guns, lacing the backlines with bolter rounds as the main turrets blasted away with high velocity explosive rounds that tore up mobs of infantry, and the hull mounted lascannons sniped the occasional armored vehicle. Along the left flank of the squadron, a burning contrail shrieked out from behind the wreckage of an undistinguishable mess of metal and wood, the rocket corkscrewed through the air before slamming into the side of the rightmost Leman Russ of the squadron, the heavy tank didn't so much as even shake, its only response being its starboard heavy bolter twisting in its well and spraying down the area the rocket had come from with high explosive revenge.

" _Providence reportin', we just took a hit from a rocket team along the right flank, around the outskirts by the roadway, seven-eight degrees our position."_ The vox crackled in his ear, barley audible above the constant ringing.

"Lead to Providence, report damage?" the squadron commander voxed back.

" _Negligible, shook us up a bit, but no penetration."_

"Keep an eye out for them and blow them to bits, Lead out."

" _Acknowledged. Providence out."_

The squadron commander, a wiry, thin man with a greying beard adjusted his headset, the dull ringing in his ears wasn't from the constant thump of his tanks twin auto cannons, their booming thuds like rolling thunder. His head was ringing from the concussion that threatened to overtake him; he mopped the blood running down his face with his bare arm. He tried to stifle a cough, and failed, a faint bloody mist spraying against the flickering external pict-feed screen before him.

He smeared his blood off the screen with the cuff of his uniform now mired in both blood and sweat alike. He stared at the red mess and wiped his mouth before feeling around his chest and only now noticing a sharp stabbing pain. He said nothing, taking in his sudden reminder of mortality in silence. Taking a shaky breath, he did what he could to still his beating heart.

This wasn't the time for him to die, not just yet. He steeled himself, and looked through the periscope, the outside lens was mired with soot, he twisted a knob and a small grimy wiper brushed against the lenses, clearing the worst of the accrual away. Nothing had changed from the last time he looked- an enraged horde of black and red, blood mad cultists and PDF rebels swarming from nearly every direction in the vain hope of overwhelming them. He swiveled the periscope to the left and to the right, his tank, _Stalwart_ , was at the center of the five Russ formation, two to his left and two more to his tanks right; forming a semi circle within the shattered pavilion. He kept his eye to the periscope and thumbed on the internal vox unit.

"Gunner, keep up the fire on the far end, eight-zero-zero meters out, search for heavy weapons and break up any clusters," He ordered, "Port, redirect fire to ten sharpish, cut that group off at the head, don't let 'em flank." He blinked as a lucky shot from the constant wash of small arms fire that pattered against the hull of his tank like metal rain nearly hit the periscope lens, for a second he imagined the bullet bouncing down the tube and coring through his eye and out the back of his skull.

" _Sir_!" The voice came over the internal vox system, he uncups his eye from the periscope; the deafness in his left ear was almost total, the gunner had to shout twice. " _Out of High-ex mags! Only got AP left, sir!_ "

He slid out of the commander's seat, ducking up into the gunners hatch. "Switch to the stubber, I'll reload for you!" It's a tight fit; his gunner was now blazing away with the light stubber, eyes glued to the scope, hands gripping the turret controls with white-knuckled intensity. The two long autoloader magazines feeding down into the autocannons chambers were empty, the red tape on their ends marking their type. Shells had been piling up around their feet without time for them to be ejected, the litter was now nearly ankle deep and spilling into the other compartments of the _Stalwart_.

By the time the commander had pulled himself into the gunner's section, she was already feeding a new belt into the breach of the light stubber just next to the primary cannons. She had a red ring around her eyes from where the viewscope had bitten into her face, the protective rubber having been worn away. "Pretty shit situation, eh, sir?" She grinned morbidly; he nodded back in kind, grabbing two empty red-taped mags from the floor. He opened the tanks ammo rack; hundreds of paint tipped rounds gleamed in the flickering light of the tanks lumen globes. They had already been dipping perilously low into emergency reserves. At best he could fill six more magazines before they were completely out of high explosive. Doggedly, he began the process of laboriously feeding rounds into the magazine one by one.

" _There's no bloody end to them_!" His starboard sponson gunners voice crackled in his good ear, he could hear them hammering away with the heavy bolter, stitching a carpet of explosive death in front of any would-be flankers. "Just keep firing." He snaps back over the vox, keeping his voice calm and commanding, thumbing in red tipped rounds nearly as long as his forearm. His vox crackled to life again.

 _"_ Carmine _to Lead, we're running dry on High-Ex, over."_

"Lead to _Carmine_ , were in the same swamp as you, just make do with what you can, we have to give the fifth a little more time, do you understand?"

 _"_ _Would be easier if they moved some guns up to support us, the bastards."_

"If you think you can dig faster than an entire platoon of engineers, feel free to swap places with them."

 _"_ _I'm just saying sir, that they should send a few of their boys up here to lighten the load."_

"No complaining until this is over, lead out." He finished one pair of magazines, slotting them back into the ready magazine rack and started on his second. His gunner was working the action on the light stubber, she glanced back at him; they were nearly back-to-back in the close confines.

"Last belt going in on the light-stubby, Sir, thought you might like to know that." She still managed to sound cheery even when they were all knee deep in shit.

"Of fucking course it is," He seethes, he finished with a third magazine and reaches for a second to pair with it, he is instead bowled over as an explosion slams into the side of the _Stalwart_ , knocking his gunner off her seat and into him. "Shit!" He snaps, he catches her before she can smash her head into the side of the hull; her helmet had already saved her once and was ruined in doing so. He could ill afford to lose her.

"Lead to all units- what was that? Identify!"

 _"_ _Lavender- Lead, rocket launchers direct ahead, far building- the one with the stained glass, third story, came out of nowhere!"_

"Put fire on them!" He ordered, he helps his gunner right herself; she scrambles back into her seat, taking the two prepared High-ex mags off the rack and slotting them home. "I'm going up top," He tells her, opening the top hatch and grabbing the heavy stubber. He winces as bullets deflect off the hull of his tank, several nearly winging him and a lasbolt grazes his shoulder before he can pull up the plasteel shield and settle in, he winces at every impact against it. The noise was louder out here, un-muffled by thick slabs of ceramite and plasteel. He looked to his left and right, the rest of his squadron.

 _"_ _Sir_!" From below his gunner shouted, voice crackling in his ear, the turret spun, cannons aiming left across the field, he see's what she was directing him at: a ragged man holding a long tube, and aiming at _his_ squadron, _his_ tanks, _his_ comrades in arms. He racks the slide on the heavy stubber and sights in without uttering a word. How his gunner, Shikia, can sense these sorts of things without seeing them, he doesn't know, her instincts must simply just be that peerless.

He squeezes the studs, the heavy stubber bucks in his grip as hot lead sprays across the field- the first burst is high and the heretic flinches- he swings his rocket launcher around, the yawning tube pointed towards him. Despite his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, he relaxes, and he first again, tracers spit through the air. He walks the iron sights over the cultist and is rewarded, the left arm of the bastard is blown off, half his torso is ripped away, and the world slows as the heretic goes down- he can almost see the trigger finger of the madman pressing down on the firing stud even from so far away. The plume of smoke behind the rocket as it spirals through the air towards him is almost hypnotizing. He braces for impact, eyes squeezed shut, there is an explosion, the shockwave rolling over him, shaking him into action; wide eyed, he watches the left side of Brilliance erupt into fire and flame as the AT rocket impacts, he thumbs his Vox.

"Lead to Brilliance, report!"

 _"_ _Brilliance, Lead, bad hit on our starboard Sponson, I've got a_ huge _facking hole in my tank! My starboard gunner has shrapnel to his throat, he's bleeding badly, and my main gunner is unconscious- requesting permission to pull back?"_

"Permission granted, pull back to the fifths line immediately!"

" _Thank you, sir!"_ He watched Brilliance, its tracks grinding into the ruined marble, it began to rumble backwards when the sudden sound of plasteel grating against stone ripped through the air- louder than anything else on the battlefield. He recognized all too well the sound of a tank wheel scraping bare against the ground. He quickly toggled his vox, "Lead to Brilliance, you've got track damage! Left tracks broken off, don't try to move!"

 _"_ _You don't bloody well say?!"_ The commander of Brilliance snapped back. " _Marcello! You fucking better damn well order those rat bastards behind us to get facking up here now!"_

"Ignacio you damn well better facking add a Sir to that or else I'll hand your cock to Viktor and watch your balls rot on his desk you screaming pile of Speck!" Second Lieutenant Marcello, leader of Stormlance Squadron, felt his head spin. "Evacuate your crew, and take up the turret you damn Speck, that's an order."

 _"_ _Orders received._ Sir _."_

"Lead to _Carmine_ and _Lavender_ , _Brilliance_ crew is dismounting starboard side, provide covering fire where able. Out." Marcello dropped back into _Stalwart_ ; Shikia glanced back at him as he locked the top hatch. "Can't stand that whining grutt. He needles me at every turn."

"Siblings are supposed to do that, sir." She replies, "Ringa's almost dry on the starboard sponson, she's drawing belts from Damino."

"Facking lovely." Marcello sets a pair of empty magazines down, he looks into the reserve, he has enough for one more pair. "Don't you have a sister, Shikia?"

"A total bitch of one." She responds. She removes the spent mags, Marcello hands her the pair he just finished. "I'll tell you more about her later need to focus."

"Hate her that much, do you?"

She grins. "So much so that I love the shit out of-" Without warning Shikia ratchets the turret around, he nearly falls as she refocuses on something at range, eyes going to the viewscope, and at once she's shouting. "Armor at twenty! Tanks! Tanks! Tanks!"

Cursing, he drops the magazines, leaving them half loaded. He grabs a pair of armor pricing and slots them into the ready rack, "Load AP and fire at will!" He orders, slipping out of the turret compartment, he crawls back into his command chair. He yanks down the periscope, focusing in along the burnt and blasted hellscape that his squadron had created. "Lead to all units- heretic armor spotted, direct ahead, main guns load AP and focus those basterding tanks! Secondaries switch to full defensive! Don't let the line break!" He gets clicks back into his headphones, returns from the squadron as several tanks move and shift, grinding tracks into dirt as they angle their armor against inevitable incoming anti-armor fire.

No two of them were exactly the same, trundling over the battlefield they could be made from any number of scrapped together vehicles and primitive machinery. Some were nothing but wheeled gunboats, Primitive oil burning engines surrounded by slabs of iron armor and encrusted with mounted stubbers. Some were armored tractors with cannons welded onto the front, there were even desultory trucks retrofitted to house massive flak cannons that would fire on a horizontal plane. Most of these were ineffective if not useless when pitted against a Leman Russ's frontal armor, but not all of them were ramshackle contraptions of primitive iron and gunpowder. Marcello scanned the advancing horde of makeshift armor; his gut was telling him that this was not all that they were throwing at them. Such became true, when the looming bulk of a true battle tank crested the sloping entrance into the once verdant and expansive city park.

"Traitor armor, thirty degrees, put range at seven hundred! Gunner, target and fire!"

Shikia brought the turret to bare, eyes to the veiwscope, she depressed the firing studs, sending a burst of high velocity armor piercing rounds down range. The front of a Leman Russ main battle tank consisted of over 150mml of hardened plasteel, and the gun mantle is well over 200mml thick, making the Leman Russ a tough nut to crack for anything but a dedicated anti tank weapon. The Exterminator Pattern of the Leman Russ is _not_ a dedicated tank killer. It's main gun, being the Exterminator Pattern 80mml Dual Autocannon system was utilized as an anti heavy infantry and light armor platform, a task it excelled at when the correct munitions were used: High Explosive Fragmentation, and High Velocity Armor Piercing. It was not designed to go head to head against heavy armor, that was a task best left to the Leman Russ Executioner, Annihilator, and Vanquisher patterns, even with a hull mounted Lascannon equipped, an Exterminator was not to be used as an armor killer, and when pitted against a non-variant Leman Russ, the Exterminator would always lose.

"Alright you blighter," Shikia focused in on the advancing enemy Russ, it was equipped with a deadly Battlecannon, a 120mml smoothbore barrel firing an armor piercing high explosive shell with an internal contact fuse, a nasty piece of work that could ruin anyone's day if it managed to land a hit. "Show me that pretty smile of yours…" She flicked the firing studs; a burst of high velocity rounds tore through the air, shattering against the front hull of the enemy Russ. Just as she hoped, its cannon turned and elevated, the big black gaping hole of its muzzle break came into her sights, she checked the range, and adjusted appropriately.

"Gotch'a." She flicked the right firing stud once.

One round streaked outwards covering the distance in under a half second. It wasn't perfect shot her usual work, she had been firing all day, and her senses were beginning to fray. The round clipped the rim of the muzzle just barley before smashing down the barrel and into the loaded chamber of the enemy Russ. The resulting explosion blew out the back off its turret, and left the hull a smoldering wreck as the ammunition cooked off sequentially. Shikia grinned, "Chalk me up another kill, boss!"

"That's not the last of them- target at three-ten, range six hundred!"

"On it, boss!"

The vox erupted in Marcello's ear, "Stalwart _! Check twenty- evade!"_ He didn't ask or look, too many years had taught him not to question a warning.

"Driver! Full reverse!" He bellowed, gripping his armrest as his tank lurched backwards, tracks grinding against stone- a blow hammered into the front of the tank, hard enough to nearly shift its angle. "Driver, angle for deflection at twenty! Shikia-"

"On it boss!"

Marcello twisted the periscope around, another Russ, this one was going full throttle in an attempt to close the distance along the right flank of their line, _Carmine_ was engaging it fully, the hull mounted lascannon burning away at the tanks hull- punching through but failing to kill it. "Fire at will!"

"Firing!"

The autocannons thundered Marcello watched the right side of the enemy Russ erupt into sparks as the High velocity rounds shattered against the heavy armor of the war machine, her first burst did nothing- but her second burst punched through the track links- the treads whipped around, coming undone and forcing the exposed wheels of the tank to bite into the dirt. Its left side swung around to the front as it plowed its right side into the ground. "Target disabled!"

"Good hits!" Marcello hit his vox. " _Carmine_ , _Lavender_ , focus it down, maul its cannon if you can, disable it!"

 _"_ _Aye, Sir!"  
"Sir!"_

 _"_ _Providence, lead! More armor encroaching from the front!"_ Marcello cursed panning his periscope back towards their front, adjusting the zoom and playing it back so he could encompass the entirety of the field of battle before them. He could see another squadron of Main Battletanks, encrusted with foul runes and blandishments, their turrets already rotating and elevating to pound their position, their first volley was short, cratering the side of the hill just below Stormlances position.

"Gunner, you have weapons free, slow them down, Driver, man the lascannon and focus down the one at two-ten," He got a confirming grunt from his driver as she swapped over to the hull weapon, he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle up as the air became charged with energy as the cells for the anti armor laser weapon began pumping power into the capacitors. The sponson gunners were working furiously, doing their damndest to keep the enemy infantry from advancing and overrunning them. The only grace given to them was the enemies ineptitude, the moment the heavy armor hit the field, the cultists and renegades hunkered down, content on letting the tanks pull their weight for them. A shell cratered the ground right before _Stalwart_ , the screaming impact throwing clods of dirt and masonry into the air, Shikia cursed as her vision was momentarily obscured before shifting her aim and firing a long steady burst at the offending Russ. "Armor disabled! Got the traverse!"

"Good hits!" Marcello snapped, through the periscope he watched the beam of the lascannon spear outwards, and scour across the armor of one of the Russes, its bulk smashing through several lesser 'tanks' that had ground to a halt as heavy bolters ripped away their iron plating.

 _"_ _Lavender to lead- confirm armor sighting at oh-five, enemy-"_ Marcello lurched back a flash of steady light filled the entirety of his periscope.

" _Lavender- Lead! We're hit! Main gun disabled!"_

"Phask!" Marcello cursed, traversing the periscope he blinked away the dots in his vision, at the far end of the park- like a shark sliding just under the surface of the water, they glided over the battlefield.

A sleek black appearance interrupted by malevolent spikes, and sacrilegious oaths, armed to the teeth and bearing all the hallmarks of its loyalist counterpart, but none of the sacredness, he identified it in seconds, and behind it, spreading out across the field, came two more.

His blood ran cold.

"Lead to Stormlance, times three traitor armor, Predator class, initiate defensive maneuvers." He was silently stunned by the clipped calmness of his commands, his eyes still glued to the sight of what was looming death through the periscope lens.

"Here they come!" His gunner shouted the twin autocannons opened up, and this time they did not go without reprisal- _Stalwart_ shook as another battlecannon round impacted the ridge before Stormlance squadron, and flashes of lascannon fire ripped over the front hull of Carmine and Lavender in once single sweep.

"This is insanity!" Marcello hit the vox. "Stormlance to fifth actual! We're being overrun!"

 _"_ _Fifth to Stormlance- hold tight we're nearly finished-_

"Negative! We're pulling back now!" He shouted, "Prepare for enemy contact we're reversing into your lines!" He cut he vox, and switched it to the squadrons' channel, "All Stormlance units! Full reverse, evasive action at once-" He stopped mid sentence twisting the periscope around he focused back on the one tank that he knew couldn't comply.

"Belay my last! Hold and fire!" Through the periscope he stared at _Brilliance_. "Lead to _Brilliance_ , dismount and evacuate." He waited for a response, and none came. He tried again. " _Brilliance,_ please respond." Something like dread began to take hold in him. "Ignacio, report damnit!" He let the vox hang open, waiting for something, anything to answer back. Nothing returned.

"Carmine _to lead! We're taking too much fire!"_

"All units… Pull-

" _Stormlance, would you kindly maintain your position for a moment more?"_ A new voice crackled over the vox, he didn't need even a second to recognize it. Marcello went ridged. _"This is the Major, speaking. Would you please remain where you are?"_

…

 _"_ _Target locked in, sir. Permission to fire?"_

Calm but lethal. like a blade of ice sliding across an exposed vein.

The screen flickered, the only light in the compartment, silence ruled save for the muffled thuds of battle and the low hum of the engine. A jet-black gauntlet rose and depressed a vox stud, and the reply comes as a whisper. "Wait." Sibilant, with a hint of excitement, it silenced any argument. A red lensed mask rife with breathing tubes and other apparatus continued to watch the screen- a direct link to the turrets pictfeed, on its auspex were three armored vehicles, remnants from the great heresy itself. They smoothly glided over the destruction wrought park. Their guns blazed with fire as armor piercing rounds deflected off the harsh and extreme angles of their armor, while their own silent weapons seared white heat cleanly through that of the Exterminator pattern Russ's frontal armor.

It was with quiet intensity that the red lenses stared, as one of the Exterminators atop the pavilion was cored through with a single direct hit from one of the predator tanks, and another had its tracks blown off. It was a one sided engagement in the purest way possible, a lion amongst a room of children. Yet, all the cards were not on the table. The three predators -in both name and aspect- lunged forwards, running over cultists in the process, careless to the damage they cause. They passed by without noticing the shark in their midst, without noticed that they had gone from land to ocean, so intent in the hunt they were immersed in. The vox bead was tapped again.

A single utterance, sweet as honey, lethal as venom.

"Please proceed,"

The engine hummed into action, red lights flickered on, engulfing a troop compartment in its soft glow. Heavily armored, black clad warriors with fearsome weapons and downturned heads.

 _"_ _Moving into position."_

Rubble and stone broke away, the side of a building collapsed outwards as a jet-black shape harpooned through brick and mortar construction. Resembling a Chimera, but black as death and lacking the traditional las arrays, it was rife with optics along its turret, and instead of a standard chimera weapon, a bulky snub nosed plasma cannon glowed with deadly intent.

"Please target the lead predator."

 _"_ _As you order."_

Rotating smoothly, the plasma weapon twisted around and refocused on the predators, a piercing streak of burning blue speared outwards, and cored through the back of the lead traitor astartes tank.

The astartes grade tanks, crewed by doubtlessly ancient superhumans, reacted in split seconds, the two remaining tanks spun on their axis, refocusing on the new threat behind them.

"Fire." A gauntlet tapped a carapace-clad knee, as if the action was controlling the firing of the mighty plasma weapon.

In rapid succession, the Chimera's turret erupted into life again. Another salvo of magnetically contained plasma lanced out and ripped into the exposed side of the second predator, the burning eruption of superheated plasma burning with the heat of a sun cored through the predators reactor block- mission killing it instantly with an internal explosion that ruptured throughout the hull of the predator.

 _"_ _We're targeted."_ The pict feed showed as much, the last Predator having fully turned to face them, its lascannon turret tacking them smoothly.

"Forwards with all speed, if you please," The order came without a hint of concern, at once the Chimera's engine roared, leaping forwards, tracks gripping the earth as it launched into a sudden burst of speed, the lascannon missed by mere inches, close enough to boil away the paint along the rear hatch. "Target their turret and fire."

The IFV locked up its left tracks, biting them into the dirt as its right tracks spun madly, spinning the armored vehicle on its axis, and bringing its turret to bare on the last remaining predator tank. There was a spear of brilliant light- and the plasma cannon burned through the limited space between the hull of the predator and the armor of its turret. The predator's main gun stopped immediately, its traverse destroyed completely. "Excellent."

 _"_ _Traitor Astartes dismounting."_

"Let them." Leaning back in their seat, they let the show unfold.

Black armored warriors painted in hazard stripes of yellow and black, a cruel symbol of iron on their pauldrons, each was fully capable of ripping the hull of the Chimera apart with their bare hands. They were fast enough to close the distance before the plasma cannon could recharge.

They of course, would never make it.

The first one to pull himself from the wreckage of their tank was pulverized, his armor smashed to pieces and his gore a squall across the field as rapid-fire Autocannon rounds tore him apart. The black clad soldier leaned forward with growing enthusiasm as the same fate of the first happened to the second. There was a third, hiding in his metal box, seeing the fate of his brothers, no doubt. "Ah, ah, ah… No hiding." The plasma cannon hummed into action, advanced auspex sensors homing in and letting a ball of superheated gas rip through the hull of the tank. The entire front of the predator was vaporized, turned to atoms. The Iron Warrior inside was not so fortunate, his legs gone, but he was still alive, and exposed to the guns of the Imperial guard. Three Exterminator patter Leman Russes adjusted their aim, and opened fire as one.

There wasn't even fragments of ceremite left, once they were done.

The specter of death with red lenses leaned back in their seat, admiring the image for as long as they could before the war called back to the present, the vox crackling to life and the dull, professional voice demanding their guidance once more.

 _"_ _Auspex reports massive energy signature approaching. Orders?"_

The red lenses looked at the readings, taking only a moment to identify them. "So they survived. How delightful." They lightly clapped their gauntlets before dismissing the readings from their retinal display. A wall crumbled and broke as a familiar Crassus simply plowed through it, its hull pockmarked with damage, it heedlessly emerged and continued onto ruined field spilled with countless wrecks and burning hulls and countless corpses. Whatever was left of the heretic swarm now balked at the appearance of the massive war engine. Its massive flamers erupted into burning violence, fanning gouts of burning promethium over the filed in wide scouring arcs.

"Now, what a lovely entrance." The black clad soldier mused, "I had thought the first Lieutenant to be dead."

…

"Second Lieutenant Marcello of the seventy sixth Calibrian First Company, reporting for duty, inquisitor." The tank commander was in a bad way, but there could be no rest afforded to him aside from cursory medical treatment, bandages and stimms, and something to lessen the pain only a bit so that his senses remained sharp.

"Glad to have you with us, soldier." Hyork nodded. They were in the shelter the regiments two Crassus Armored Assault Transports, Votair and Tycarion. Those present were Hyork, Lagorn, Hastis, Scout Master Yenald, Suliko, and Marcello. A Map of the battle line was on a fold out table before them, red and blue lines had been draw, a yellow stone marking the cathedral.

"We've managed to regain contact with the majority of the first company forces within the city." Suliko began. "As it stands, the first and second companies have stalled in the advance and have become entangled, the second enmeshing with the first. The third company advanced into range of the jamming and suffered the same fate as us, but in doing so our positions have been reinforced, we now have overwhelming numbers, but no cohesive chain of command to do anything with them, until exactly six minutes ago."

Suliko draw another, circling in dots every few inches. "We have vox communications in under fifty meters, anything more and its lost. We've created a web of interlacing vox communications along the battle line, relaying orders up and down the line, staying always within visual contact if possible. With this system we've managed to regain some semblance of unit cohesion." Suliko was sweating, half muttering as he poured over the map. Hastis took a half step back in case he was about to explode.

"The operation is still viable, we've lost momentum but if we can initiate a widespread push all along the line we can apply pressure against their defenses with the astartes acting as a quick reaction force- moving up and down the line, destroying points of resistance so as to keep the advance uniform."

"I was not advised of this plan." Yenald speaks.

"Oh, no, you weren't, I completely forgot," Suliko mutters, only half aware. "Lieutenant Marcello, you have overall command of the armored units in the captains absence, he's commanding Ironclad and Reaper, Challenger should converge on your position, the time-table for the push is a ten-minute grind with infantry support along these streets but falling off once you hit the main carriageway- _Do Not_ let your tanks get bogged down, failure to break this pass will result in the third platoon- who is advancing to your right flank- to lose any chance at armor support, you are their anvil, they are the hammer-"

"He does not appear to be fully aware." Said Yenald, watching the first lieutenant Drone on, barley stopping to breathe as he drags his pencil across the map, outlining the general offense, in the most minute of detail.

Marcello can only shrug and shake his head. "He might be insane but he isn't stupid. Just crazy."

…

"Lets make ready to roll out." Hastis clapped Lagorn on the back of the helmet. "Hyork, we're moving." He called out to the inquisitor. "Hurry it up or I leave you behind"

Hyork made his way over as the makeshift fortifications were torn down and stowed in salamander scout vehicles and Trojan support tanks and Centaur light carriers. "Are we not mounting with the first Lieutenant?" Hyork asked. Hastis sighed and shook his head. "Had you been listening at all you'd know that we're mounting up with the first companies Stormtrooper detachment. 'Sandshroud' they call themselves. Suliko said that they're a bunch of miserable Cunts."

"He has a way with words." Hyork said.

"I doubt he's wrong."

"Speaking from experience, again?" Lagorn asked.

"Always."

The black clad Chimera IFV was waiting for them, ramp lowered, and a Stormtrooper wearing the rank of Major waiting outside for them, hands clasped behind their back and standing at attention like a statue. They turned when approached. Hastis spoke first. "You our ride?" He asked. In his opinion, the stormtrooper was unusually short for what he had expected. Short and…

Hastis didn't know how to place it. The red lenses and golden trim of their helmet told him their rank, hard earned marks of authority for any stormtrooper, so was the holstered plasma pistol and sheathed power falchion. But there was an air of dark malevolence that seemed to shroud his gut in tremors. The Major looked up to Hastis, and without preamble they began. _"Greetings, Lords, I am of the Imperial Guards Vaunted Stormtroopers of the Scholia Progenium Tempestus. I am the Overall commander of all Tempestus elements within the Calibrian Seventy Sixth. It is my pleasure to inform you that the finest Stormtroopers of this regiment, and my own personal squad under the title of 'Sandshroud', will be allowed the duty of escorting you. If I may add, I would also deign to say that it is an incredible honor to be of service to the most Holy Ordos of the Inquisition. I truly do hope that myself and my comrades can be of service to you and to the Imperium as a whole, Inquisitor."_ The Major then bowed, one foot before the other, one hand behind their back, the other extended towards the open ramp of the Chimera. _"Your escort stands ready for you to embark upon, Inquisitor."_ Hyork looked to Hastis with a quirked brow.

"Take notes, Hastis." He simply said.

….

The ramp closed behind them, the diminutive Major taking seat next to Hastis, hands folded and a harness locked into place over their armor. Hastis plucked at his own harness, he'd never been in a Chimera that needed on before, and he didn't know why this one would have it. The Chimera roared to life- its engine disturbingly quiet as it rolled out on greased tracks, taking position behind the Lead tank of Stormlance. They would stay with the armored column until the base of the Cathedral was visible, where they would break off and combine with the Astartes elements that would move in at from behind the **Crassus Armored Assault Transports** who would fire yellow flares upon arrival. Hastis glanced at Hyork, the inquisitor was quiet again, head bowed and brow knit.

"You sure you're up to this, Hyork?" Hastis grunted, tightening the straps on his armor. Next to him, Lagorn was adjusting the fit of his Vox Caster, retracting much of the antenna, locking up compartments and making it sit as close and snugly to his back as he could make it. In contrast, the Stormtroopers were motionless, heads bowed in prayer, hotshot lasguns lain across their laps. Hyork was completely different from them all, his brow was furrowed, and his hands clenched together, his first taste of real combat had been difficult for him to stomach.

The talk of all inquisitors being battlefield legends was a falsehood; most of them were simple investigators and saboteurs, directing their minions into combat while they stayed behind. At most, an inquisitor of rank and file would deal with a mob of cultists whom he outgunned and out armored, the foe they faced completely incapable of hurting them. On a pitched frontline battle zone, the story was different. Hyork met Hastis' gaze with his own, and shook his head.

"No. But I must endure." Hastis nodded, leaning back in his seat, enjoying the bumpy ride while it lasted. He enjoyed watching Hyork stew like this, overthinking the battle ahead, when in reality he had no way to control it like he so desperately tried to control and account for everything else. The maelstrom of battle, the endless variables of combat where luck and faith could overrule skill and planning was the old inquisitors hell.

Hastis grinned, relishing the uncertainty that was plaguing the man who held his proverbial leash. The moment could not last forever, autogun fire ripped across the hull of the Chimera. Hastis reached for a las array that wasn't there. "Where are damn firing ports?" He snapped.

 _"_ _My apologies,"_ The red-lensed Major said, bowing their head. _"This variant upon the Chimera Chassis does not possess tertiary defense arrays. It would compromise the effectiveness of the vehicles augur shrouding."_

"Augur what? Shrouding _what_?" Hastis snapped. "The hell kinda box is this thing?"

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, an electric hum seeming to roll through the chassis of the Chimera, three high pitched whines, one right after the other cut through his ears as the plasma cannon fired at a target unseen, the red lights dimming ever so slightly with every shot. The IFV was weightless for a moment, Hastis felt himself lifting out of his seat before crashing back down, and nearly slamming his head back against the hull. "Sweet Throne above!" He shouts. "Who the fack is driving this thing?!" Hyork was gripping the armrests of his seat with white knuckles, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pursed, Lagorn looked like he was going to be sick.

More fire rippled over the hull, heavy caliber rounds by the sound of it, again the plasma cannon shrieked as it fired in consecutive three round volleys, the gunner tracking targets even as the driver hauled the armored vehicle around a corner at speeds that lifted one side of the Chimera off the ground. The machine was moving at speeds that normal Chimeras would consider unsafe when even traveling in a straight line, much less a crowded hostile city. _"There is an obstruction ahead, please brace for your own safety."_ The major announced.

"Obstruction? What-" Rubble was ground to dust underneath the tracks as a bone-shaking blow shook the hull- the sound of masonry collapsing on top of them as the IFV blasted through a stone wall. Hastis barked a curse as his head slammed back against his seats headrest and Lagorn whined. Hyork tried to remain focused on his breathing. The Driver didn't show any sign of slowing down, if anything, they had floored it, the engine's throaty growl ratcheted up several degrees and they were again thrown around the corner, and again half of the Chimera was lifted up into the air, Hastis could feel bullets smacking into the floor of the transport, it was the final straw for Lagorn who started screaming through grit teeth, gripping at his harness his eyes wide and panicked.

 _"_ _I am sorry that this is stressful for you, Sir. Perhaps being able to view our course would be of assistance?"_ The major leaned forward in their harness, a handheld Hololithic projector- more valuable than anything Hyork, Lagorn, or Hastis had on their person- produced from their chest pouch. They flipped it open and a grainy image of the Chimera's gun feed from the turret flickered into view. Countless muzzle flashes from autocannons, AT rockets and several Leman Russ Battlecannons met their gaze as the Chimera went crashing through barricades and wooden buildings like a jet-black torpedo.

Hyork stared boggle eyed and Lagorn turned away. Hastis could only watch as the IFV's turret whipped around, blinding light searing his eyes from the small holoscreen as the plasma cannon cored through the hull of a traitor battletank even as the IFV again hooked around a ninety degree corner, using the added elevation of the tipping to raise its barrel and core through the top floor of a high-rise building, bringing the rocket crew that had been stationed above falling to the ground. Hastis had to shut his eyes as the tank settle back down onto a horizontal plain and the vertigo inducing turns stopped- but the enemy fire intensified, "Shut that shit off-" He begged as pair of traitor astartes entered the view of the pict feed.

 _"_ _As you wish, Sir."_ The Major put the vile thing away as the sound of Bolt rounds punched into the hull. _"We shall be nearing our destination. You should ready yourselves, Sir's."_ The Major spoke, their voice rasping out through her helmets built in vox.

They primed their Plasma pistol, and unclipped the loop around their Power weapons hilt, letting it rest in its scabbard. _"This will likely be a dangerous insertion. It would appear that the Heretics and Traitors are a slight more numerous than we first thought. Please, do not worry for your safety, my men can handle an increase in such dregs."_ The Stormtroopers seemed to animate all at once, going from resting in their seats, hotshots lain across their laps and heads bowed in prayer, to a rigorous checking of their weapons, equipment, and various archeotech instruments that was rife about their carapace laden forms. The Type-67 Lasgun in Hastis' hands suddenly felt supremely inadequate.

 _"_ _Disembarking in five"_ The Chimera gunned its engine, flying over a straight bit of road, _"Four"_ heavy autogun fire spackled off the hull, Hastis gripped his harness, shouting, "Disembarking?!"

The major unclipped their harness and stood. _"Three."_ They grabbed a ceiling railing, short enough to not need to hunch over. _"Two."_ Hastis was thrown back in his seat as the Chimera ground its left tracks in a sudden reverse as the right powered forwards, spinning the IFV around.

 _"_ _One."_

The ramp drops as the Chimera twists around, spinning, sliding over the rubble, its treads grinding into flagstones, sparks radiating off its hull as blistering fire from multiple heavy stubbers gouged craters across its palsteel and ceramite surface. Hastis stares with wide eyed as the Major let go of the railing, letting momentum throw them out of the power sliding Chimera. Plasma pistol raised one handed; they sighted in on their first victim. They fired. A hiss of gas and searing blue light flared out from the muzzle, a pulse of power, contrails of energy stitching along its path that led from the muzzle of their gun to target, irradiative flakes of atomized dust sparking along its journey.

The metal shield housing the tri-barreled heavy weapon melted, the belt fed rounds cooked off, the Heretic weapons team manning the gun didn't even have the chance to feel the pain before their rags burnt away, followed by their flesh, their muscle, and then bones and organs as the superheated ball of plasma continued through them and through the three brick walls behind their position.

Before this first shot even dissipated into the either, the Major was still airborne, still firing. There were three machinegun emplacements when they let themselves be thrown from the troop bay of the IFV. By the time they landed there was now only three smoldering, twisted metal skeletons. The Major rolled as they landed, flipping back up into a crouched position behind a shattered statue, pistol braced over their arm already cracking off blazing blue shots of energy at concealed heretic targets that their helmets augur systems marked for eradication.

The Chimera finally ground to a halt, its cannon blazing away, the Stormtroopers sprinted out of the transport bay- one of them remaining behind, holding their arm up, barring Hastis, Hyork, and Lagorn from exit without explanation. Laslight and the high-pitched whine of automatic Lasgun fire ripped across the street for a full two seconds before terminating all at once.

 _"_ _Insertion point secure."_

The trooper dropped their arm, exiting the Chimera. Spread out in cover, equal distances maintained between them all in a semi circular fashion, weapons trained outwards and ready to unleash violence at the drop of a coin. They were mechanical in their movements, scanning the area with a slow pan of their weapons before panning back in the opposite direction- awaiting orders.

The Major drew their falchion, more a sword in their diminutive hands, flicking it outwards, a burst of electric blue light rippling up its length and fading back into a steady glow along its edge as they began to snap out orders along the vox link. _"Actual to zed-six through ten, forward skirmish, zed-two through zed-four, sigma pattern on actual, zed-five, escort protocol. Actual to Squad: expunge protocol sanctioned."_

The major took the moment of relative calm to face Hyork. " _Inquisitor, we are about to enter a heavy combat situation. I am sorry to inform you, but I do not know if we will be able to adequately ensure your safety. I will endeavor to increase your chances of survival, but please be aware that long-range auspex scans from our Infantry Fighting Vehicle reveal a high chance of Traitor Astartes being present. It is unlikely that we will be able to complete our objective without sustaining casualties. It would sadden me greatly if it were to occur that you were among them."_ The Major bowed again, one hand behind their back, the other clasped against their chest rig. _"I do not mean any insult when I say that it is highly advisable that you remain behind our formation at any given time in the immediate future."_

Hastis barked a laugh to mask his fear.

Multiple traitor astartes signatures.

Multiple. _Traitor._ _ **Astartes**_.

They'd barley survived contact with two, each one separate.

"This bodes poorly." Hyork flicked out his sabre cane.

…

The yellow flare hissed and popped as it floated back down to earth. A bolt round tore through its canopy and markedly increased its descent, but the damage had already been done. Blitzing over ruined streets and blazing over rooftops, green and brown land speeders raked hellishly accurate bolter fire over the positions of Heretics and traitors. Stoic determination saw them jinx under the blistering heat of lascannon shots before they were even fired, and flakk missiles were evaded and left as spinning contrails behind them. A breach had been made and a gap was opened in the enemy positions- it would only last for seconds. Seconds were all that the Astartes of the Suns Descendants needed.

A landspeeder Storm ripped through the sky, flying at speed and low to the ground with only inches to spare. The driver maneuvered the speeder over debris and buildings at the very last second. Flak fire clouded the sky above, barley clearing buildings as a squadron of landspeeders made their descent across the redline, speeding towards the yellow flares location, the ground below blurring together in a mix of indistinguishable carnage and violence. At the head of the formation, gripping his silver staff, Yenald prepared to jump.

Three seconds.

Two seconds.

One second.

"Deploy." Yenald let go, and his scouts fell with him.

The landing would have shattered the body of any normal man, and even for Yenald, as space marine of countless years, it was a jarring maneuver. He could only imagine the ease of it had he been blessed with a functioning Black Carapace, but such was not his fortune. He didn't let eh pain slow him and he ducked under the swing of a chaos space marines howling blade.

This would be both fast and brutal. Numbers were not on their side. The bulk of the chaos marine forces were indeed sequestered within the void-shielded walls of the cathedral, and they were mainly Iron warriors. Siege experts and veterans of the heresy. Already they were exacting a toll from the Sun Descendants. The cratered skull of one of his brothers, toppling off his shoulders from the pinpoint accurate shots of an Iron Warriors legionary who was already relocating upon the walls of the Cathedral.

He only needed to hold the gap for fifteen seconds more. Just fifteen seconds, and then they would arrive.

In the expanding combat the only safety was in pitched melee, the swirling mix of armor and bodies the only shield from opportunistic snipers who would think to try their luck. Yenald ducked and weaved behind traitor astartes, striking out with his staff at any exposed joint. He did not stick to one single combat- fading in and out of individual fights the moment that the enemy combatant turned their focus to him. When their back was turned, then his brothers would strike- disengaging from their own duels with liquid alacrity and twisting a combat knife into an exposed break in the traitors armor or blasting them at point-blank range with a bolter or shotgun.

His brothers and himself were not so much as fighting- they were dancing, they flowed like a calm stream, the barest expenditure of energy in the face multiple astartes enemies. Pressing and pulling- a fully defensive gambit made to buy as much time as possible, and draw the enemy into the trap.

Mortals were here, the inquisitor and his retinue, the imperial guards stormtroopers and their diminutive leader, swamped by cultists and locked in hand to hand every one of them, a chaos astartes renegade of a lost chapter hacked and cut at the fencing blade of the inquisitor and the Stormtrooper Major beside him. Yenald looked for an opening in his own fight, one where he could twist around and place a bolter shell in the back of the traitor, turn the fight in the favor of the Mortals- but the chaos champion, a chosen elite of the arch enemy, the crimson clad warrior refused to give him an inch- whirling chain blades in each hand forced him back step b step and away form his brothers- his stave wove a cage of steel around him, deflecting each and every blow, to the point where they were almost evenly matched. He grunted, trying to find an edge. The seconds counted down in his head.

Ten more seconds.

…

"Blessed on the sands!" Hastis roared, combat knife glinting in his hands as he cut forwards- the steel biting into cultist flesh and sinking in as he drove it home.

"Fendora!" Behind him, Lagorn, his lifelong friend and brother shouted in kind- swinging his lasgun like a club, bashing away another cultist before bringing it to shoulder and putting a burst into the downed heretics chest. They didn't have a second to breathe before the horde crashed over them again. A black clad stormtrooper- this one bleeding from a bullet wound in the leg was next to him, drawing monomolecular steel and expertly slicing through the neck of a heretic before one handed spraying from the hip with their hotshot- buying Hastis room he needed to jam home a new drum shaped pack. The weapon primed and he put a burst of automatic lasfire into a charging cultist- his entire torso coming away as over thirty bolts were pumped into him and out his back in a storm of fierce red heat before a bullet caught Hastis in the leg and sent him to one knee.

The Stormtrooper behind him whipped around and put a hotshot bolt through the eyes of a cultist that looked capitalize on his injury, Hastis had no time to thank the elite soldier before the endless tide of madmen and traitors swarmed in close baying for blood and carnage- all manner of improvised weapons wielded in gore coated hands, there was no reason in their eyes, there was no logic. There was only the malignant taint of chaos wiping away any fear and any sanity as they basked in the shadow of their dark overlords.

 ** _"_** ** _For The Dark Gods!"_** the ground seemed to shake with its bellowed war cry, as Hyork danced backwards, the anticipated strike materializing in reality just moments before- one step ahead of every motion this corrupted creature made. Then there was the major, sweeping in under strikes and following up with a quicksilver fast blow from their sparking falchion- each cut another insult against the ancient warrior, his rage only seeming to make his power rise to new heights.

The major danced backwards out of reach from the chaos champion- plasma pistol spinning up and ready to fire only for the attack to be aborted when the chaos champion retaliated with its own bolt pistol and forcing the major back into melee or behind cover before leaping to the inquisitors' side. Hyork flicked out the laspistol that the trenches had seen him acquire seemingly so long ago in the early morning. He fired- the red beams doing nothing to the chaos astartes armor aside from gathering its attention- and it lashes out, chainblade howling as it cuts for his neck- Hyork is dodging an instant before the attack even begins the picture in his mind playing out into reality.

The Major dives in, low to the ground, using their small frame to their advantage, the Falchion swings and the Champion turns away out of the path of the blade- the very tip of it sparking against his leg, before the major is weaving in and out from between a savage series of blows that were dodged with a razors edge of room left. There was no use in trying to parry such savage strikes when you didn't even have a quarter of the strength required. Again Hyork blasts away with the las pistol- the champion now filled with rage at such pitiful attempts- He turns, looking to finish Hyork now with a lunge towards the Inquisitor- The Major drives their Falchion home at last through the powerpack on the traitors back- A backhanded blow knocks them away.

 ** _"_** ** _The dark gods empower me!"_** The snarling vox grill of the ancient marine seems more like a sneering grin. **_"With them I am Stronger than ever!"_**

Hyork sees his chance as the Astartes turns and raises his bolt pistol to finish off the reeling major- staggered from such a savage blow to the head- their helmet saving their life.

"Your dark gods will not save you from me, Traitor." Hyrok's eyes flash with power, psychic energy coalesces along the length of his blade condensing at the tip like a torch. The heretic astartes whips around- just as Hyork had seen it do in his mind.

The lightning strikes faster than the traitor can pull the trigger- a brilliant flash of psychic energy unleashed into the power armored warrior of the darkest age in imperial history- flesh is burnt away before the astartes even has a chance to scream- twin hearts burst and organs turn to ash and cinder, in seconds all that is left is a smoking husk of armor. Hyork releases the power- breathing deeply; it was never easy to do so. He spits.

"This was all the power you've been given, and you call yourself stronger?" He pants. "Hardly worth the energy." He flicks his sword cane; the force weapon still hums.

The battle shifts- the tides of the heretics close in, the sounds of fighting echo off the cathedrals walls, Hyork can see arcs of fire all along the left and right of their flanks, the imperial guard, the seventy sixth, forcing their way through the traitor defenses to reach them. He has only a second to catch his breath. Only a second of rest before a bullet punches through his chest. He can see it happen in his mind, and he knows he is too slow to dodge it.

Hastis flashes through his mind before he hits the ground. The combative Fendoran Guardsman did always chastise him for never wearing body armor. Hyork had always argued back that it was unbefitting of his station- that his armor was his own mind.

He felt so foolish now, with the blood welling up in his lungs, and the shattered bits of rib cutting through his skin. He was soon to be just another body on another battlefield in the imperium of man, an ignominious end, for a cowardly man.

It was nothing less than what he deserved.

…

 _"_ _Inquisitor down._ " The static laced voice of the storm trooper was placid and unhurried- but the sentence set Hastis' blood on fire. He spins and sees Hyork fall- Hastis is running before he knows that his body is even moving, the lasgun is up and firing, red beams of light punching through flesh, as the ground runs red.

The Major is down- hacking at legs as a horde of cultist's dog piles them, the major fires blindly with their plasma pistol- the front of their helmet broken in and leaking blood. Hastis takes a bullet again- low in his gut and another up in his shoulder- he still runs.

A cultist charges him with a knife, Hastis catches the blade through his hand and unloads an automatic burst from his lasgun into the gut of the heretic.

He is just meters away before the hulking armored form lands in front of him- a creature out of a nightmare- far more terrible than any chaos space marine- clawed feet and a twisted helmet contorted into the shape of a predators face- It reaches out and closes its fist around his face, lifting him off the ground with contemptuous ease.

This was the end.

Ten seconds

What is a miracle?

Some would say, that a miracle is a blessing from the emperor, if you were to ask the pious. There are also those who would call it luck or happenstance. Some might even refuse to acknowledge it as anything out of the ordinary at all.

Lagorn, a Fendoran vox technician, is a pious man. He believes in The God Emperor of Mankind.

He watches, a chaos raptor of spiked armor and ghoulish features, grip the skull of his comrade and lift him into the air. In the hands of Lagorn, is a lasgun, a standard mass produced M35 Kantreal pattern lasrifle. It operates in the nineteen-megathule range of power output. It is a solid, and reliable weapon for the humble imperial guardsman.

It is not possible for it to penetrate the armor of a space marine, from any distance.

It does not possess the power output required to do so. Even if pressed flesh against a joint or even the helmet, it cannot do so. Perhaps if flush against an eye lens and fired on fully automatic, but the likelihood of that ever happening is astronomically low.

Five seconds

Lagorn does not think about any of this as he drops to a knee and shoulders his lasgun, sighting down the barrel and exhaling as he fires.

The laser bolt travels at the speed of light, and strikes the hardest, most heavily armored part of the chaos raptor- the chest.

And a miracle happens.

A pious man would say, that the Emperor answered the prayers of Lagorn, and gifted his lasgun with the power to strike a telling blow against the heretical astartes that had fallen from grace.

Another might say, that Lagorn landed a one in a trillion trillion shot against an unseen crack in the armor of the raptor that the high temperatures of the lasbeam had stressed to the point of breaking.

Whatever they believe, whatever the true reason being, the result is the same. The traitor's armored chest erupts, a fist-sized hole cracking open and exposing the corrupted black carapace underneath- a writhing symbiotic thing that hisses and spits.

Lagorn doesn't hesitate- doesn't ruminate on what just happened- he acts, he fires, a lasbolt cutting through the air and punching into the traitors exposed chest, once, twice, a third time and now it is through the rib plate- the fourth bolt cuts through the primary heart.

The raptor drops Hastis- staggering backwards- in shock and in pain. Even when dazed and his head reeling, there is no way that Hastis could miss this shot. He draws his revolver and in one fluid motion, he plants a supercharged hotshot lasbolt through the right eye lens of the Raptor.

His world goes dark.

…

Impact.

On Wings of fire and with blades of fury.

Streaks of red and silver drop from the sky like howling meteorites of ceremite coated rage and violence. The close-combat fury of the griffon's rage knew no limits. The impact of their landing cratered the ground, and hit with enough force that a boot planted against the helmet of an Iron warrior legionary landed with enough force that Yenald could hear the legionaries' spine break. Shock and awe on an unprecedented level- an explosion of such visceral violence that it was enough to give the veterans of the long war a whole second of pause- a whole uninterrupted second for the red and silver astartes to rampage freely.

One of the members of the assault squad charged a legionary directly before him with a jump pack assisted shoulder barge, driving the warrior into the ferocrete walls of the cathedral. The Assault marine maglocked his chainblade to his hip and lashed out, restraining the sword arm of the legionary, and grappling him around the torso. His jump pack flared bright- and the traitor and loyalist soared directly upwards, thirty feet, sixty feet, one-twenty, one-eighty, and when at an acceptable height- the assault marine let the legionary fall.

Without any means of maneuvering like the assault marine did, Yenald sighted in on the falling champion with his stalker bolter, and one handedly he aimed, and pulled the trigger. A Kraken penetrator cored though the helmet of the corrupted legionary; Yenald did not wait to see the corpse land.

The gates to the Cathedral are meters away; he rallies his brothers to his side as the Griffons hack through the remaining renegade's.

The end is in sight.

…

The sky is black, and lightning rises from the ground to reach up and touch the heavens. Colonel Deov Vestalt stands atop his Macharius Vanquisher, _Divine Judicator_ as the wind began to howl with the laughter of dark gods, and the sanity behind the workings of reality lost all meaning.

A great rift in the clouds, like the birth of a stillborn god from a dark womb, something tears open reality above the cathedral that is so distant yet so close.

He must close his eyes and banish the heresy that threatens to whisper lies into his mind, as his eyes must be lying to him. There could not truly be a dark hand reaching down from the heavens.

There could not be a hand likewise rising from the ground to meet it. Such a thing is impossible.

Such a thing is Abominable.

He begins to weep, as in his heart; he knows that his eyes did not deceive him. He knows that he is watching the advent of the end of this world. The wind howls and the storm rages- scouring lightning digs mile long trenches into the earth and then returns to the sky, the heavens are alight with fire, and the ground shakes.

Something terrible is being born.

It is the end of all things

.

..

…

What is a miracle?

Some would say, that a miracle is a blessing from the emperor, if you were to ask the pious. There are also those who would call it luck or happenstance. Some might even refuse to acknowledge it as anything out of the ordinary at all.

Captain Yenald of the Suns Descendants Sixth Company, and Scout Master of the Second Gathering and Wychbane of the Dark Eldar, has lived for well over two hundred years, and will soon be given the third century rite. He has seen the death of worlds, and the birth of others. He has seen the courage of man in its purist form; he has also bore witness to mankind's unlimited depths of depravity and pettiness. He knows that Mortals are both capable of great heroism, and great evil. The small candle in their heart that is their soul is small and seemingly insignificant.

He knows, that this tiny, precious thing must be protected at all costs.

There is nothing that Yenald will not do, no pain he will not suffer, and no hardship he will not endure to ensure that the candle of hope is not snuffed out by the darkness of chaos and the wickedness of those who have already fallen to it.

The dread sorcerer lord rose on a pillar of fire, his armor shifts and churns with the power of the warp- his form as mutable as his insane mind. He is wreathed in power and holds the gaze of the dark gods upon him now in this moment. He is an unstoppable torrent that threatens to snuff out every flame in the imperium of mankind. Epithets and curses roll from the single glaring eye at the center of his helm, in his hands a warpstaff of dark power roils, at its head, a yawning abyss- a contained portal to the warp itself is opened, the insidious ritual to call a dead god forth finally at the climax.

Yenald has no words to say to this creature that has fallen far form its once halcyon and noble throne of virtue- this is a corruption of an astartes, no longer a shining beacon against the evils of the universe, but now the very evil that he had been forged to fight against.

Brothers die all around him, and Yenald now stands alone before this monster. He has only his staff- a blessed relic from dark times, a treasure of the Chapter, an irreplaceable artifact forged before the birth of the Imperium, letters in a language that none in the chapter can transcribe or identify press against his callused fingers.

He takes reaches back, and grips the staff with one hand, he throws- every last ounce of his strength put into one, single throw. As the staff leaves his fingers, Yenald closes his eyes, and for the first time in his long life-

-he prays.

And a miracle happens.

...

 **You know prescience? That psychic power that let's you reroll saves and shit? I don't think it's actually precognition or anything like that or even a psychic power. I actually know what it really is. You see, instead of having any psychic shit like that, psykers with prescience actually are tapping into MOTHERFUCKING ULTRA INSTINCT and are going god-mode Goku on a motherfuckers ass with some dragon-ball level hyper fighting shit, so shut up and don't question it, just let the meme happen, and whenever you make a save because of prescience, lean back from the table and scream-**

 **-KA KA KA KA KACHIE DAZE- GUN GUN GUN GUN GUWA NUKI- CHAN CHAN BYAN BYAN KU U KO KU NO- BATOOOO-**

 **-at the top of your lungs and watch as your opponent slowly backs away from your clearly retarded ass as you suddenly realize that you peaked during high school and everything else is all downhill from here and before you ask yes I actually did this once when fighting an Eldar player and they just silently stared at me for like a full fucking minute with the deepest and most sincere look of disappoint that I have ever seen in another human being and did I also mention that the Eldar player was actually my Dad?**

 **And yeah, I lied about having some super important message or shit at the beginning.**

 **You were tricked.**

 **I deceived you.**

 **You didn't honestly believe me? Did you?**

 **Anyways, the crossover portion begins next chapter, which will be uploaded in the extremely mercurial future, hopefully before the heat death of the universe but you never know when motherfucking wizards and shit are involved.**

 **Have a bitchin' day. I respond to PM's whenever I'm sober. Feel free to drop one.**

...

AN/ **ICe CrEEm IS HArAM**


	3. Interlude

**Sergeant bandito- Please get out of MyHoneyHole You stinky Grot in a BoneBag**

 **...**

The chill in the air wasn't from the fog rolling in off the ocean; it was something far more sinister. Standing alone on the docks, her hair falling back over her shoulders in its luxuriant golden curls that she prided herself so much on, the blonde bombshell could almost taste a salacious malevolence in the air, an undercurrent riding off the eastern winds. The normally so bespoke and open Huntress, Yang, found herself at odds with the unusual silence. It was of course, more than just the silence that unnerved her, the past events that were still so damnable fresh in her minds eye brought her to heel from her normal clamor. She found herself alone, now more than ever, waiting for the arrival of a friend. Yang bit her upper lip and pulled her coat closer. It was cold this morning as if it were winter, despite it being the tail end of the summer months that should have foretold of a lingering heat in the forests of Vale. Yang adjusts her clothing until she's as snug and warm as she can be while standing aside the docks. She was alone for the most part, the normal smash-and-grab hustle and bustle of the dockside markets toned and mellowed, to the point of it being dead and airless in much of the same way an ancient crypt would be, a shadow of its former mercantile prosperity. She should have known to expect such a disparity, given the circumstance of the world at large, she'd heard about the shit that went down not so long ago, but she had ignored it, her mind wasn't in the best of places, and even now she was still recovering.

She pulled out her new hand, the black and gold cybernetic was top-shelf quality, she made a fist and felt the dull sympathetic sensations of artificial nerves feeding back into her stump. It functioned just as well as her old arm, and if anything she would be willing to call it an outright improvement. The strength and durability it brought was unmatched, and its stopping power was remarkable. Alongside the impromptu intervention and practice she had with her father, it was in no way shape or form a drawback. What remained of her upp arm was still tender, the trauma not healed, but in truth, the wounds weren't as apparent as some would think.

Yang took another look around the docks; maybe Blake had already arrived and wasn't calling? Not likely, it wasn't like for Blake to play games. Maybe her mind was just getting to her, maybe Yang was wrong about that black seed of foreboding in the pit of her stomach that had not left her the moment she rolled back into Vale. Yang wasn't ignorant to the shaping of Remnant at the hands of each and every major player in the game. The most current news was that of the recent terrorist attacks that had swept across Vale. Rumor was, that the terrorists were linked to the White Fang, something that had gotten Atlas involved in the proceedings if the increased numbers of white-clad Atlasians were anything to go by. They'd stopped and frisked her a couple of times already. Normally, she might have made a tasteless joke or perverted comment. The fact that didn't was reason enough for some self-reflection. She just didn't feel right. Not after losing her arm, and not after everything else that has happened.

Her scroll pipped in her coat pocket. It was a message; she flicked it open and read it to herself. It was Blake. She was arriving, and would be off the ship in a couple minutes. Yang tried to look up and down the docks, trying to see where her boat had pulled in, but the early morning fog was obscuring everything along the shoreline. Her Scroll pipped again, and a quick glance confirmed her suspicions.

Glynda.

Her timing was impeccable, and as the sitting headmistress of the still occupied Beacon it had only gotten better.

"Hey,"

Yang nearly jumps, keeping a cool face she glances over- the black haired Faunus girl with the yellow eyes- Blake, her friend and her teammate. "Sheesh, Blake, you nearly made jump." Yang pockets her scroll, she cracks a grin, it comes off as forced even for her. Smiling had come easy for the blond bombshell, but nowadays… It was clear that she wasn't the only one who was having a rough go of it. Blake looked like shit. It was the early days all over again, freaking out over the white fang, about people looking for her- hunting her. Yang had a feeling that a pep talk and heart-to-heart wasn't going to cut it this time around.

"Long time no see?" Yang tries. Blake looks up at her, she's silent for a half-second.

"Nice to see you." She nods, her voice is raspy, her eyes are pained and tired, bags hand under her eyes like weights, her hair is unkempt and her clothes seem stained and unwashed. She seems sick. There is something eating away inside of Blake, but she can't bring herself to say it, even though she wants to shout it- scream it, take Yang by the shoulders and shake her until everything that has gone to hell just pours out and-

"Are you… feeling ok?" Yang tries to ask, Blake shakes her head at once.

"No. Not ok. Nothing is." She mutters. "Talk about it later." Her words, cut and curt, she walks past Yang, and only then does the blonde notice the long, ugly scar running up and down the back of the Faunus girls right arm. It was a recent wound, barley healed and stapled closed. Yang knew better than anyone that the black-cat Faunus girl was quick on the trigger with her Aura, perhaps faster than anyone else, the fact that someone had apparently gotten the jump on her and caught her with her Aura down, was not something that could simply wait until later.

"Shit, Blake, your arm-"

" _Later._ " Blake snaps.

Yang shuts her mouth, hissing through grit teeth she followed exasperatedly behind Blake. She wondered just exactly what had happened. Her heart sinks a little. If Ruby was here, she'd know what to say, or maybe she'd blurt something stupid out, and take Blake's mind off whatever she was dealing with.

Yang follows after the harried Faunus girl, catching up to her, they walk side by side. "So," Yang tries to make some small talk. " How was Menagerie?" She asks, and bites her tongue as Blake goes ridged, her ears flattening, twitching. She looks away and Yang curses, she berates herself internally, clearly Ruby didn't need to be here when they were cut from the same cloth, the only difference between them being that Ruby was an adorable idiot, and herself being a fucking retard.

"Anyway, uh," Yang coughs pointedly. "Did Glynda tell you anything aside from where and when to meet? She's waiting in the lot, just ahead, by the way."

"Nothing. Just said to meet up." Blake shrugs. "Any ideas?" She asks, at least she was talking, Yang put that up to a positive.

"I'm in the dark just like you."

Blake looks around. They were just exiting the docks, and so began the fish markets, normally stocked and full even early in the morning, this time they were shuttered and locked. The boardwalk desolate of any meaningful activity save for the few hunched over lonely fishermen trundling to their boats or back from them.

"What happened here?" Blake asks. "This place is dead."

Yang looks at her. "You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

"There was another attack not long ago, it was pretty bad."

"What? Was it the white fang? Are they back here too? Did it come from Beacon?" Blake seems to snap, her eyes go wide, her hands rest on the handles of her weapons. Yang grabs her by the shoulders- stills her. "No- No, shut up and hold on!" Blake hesitates and relents. Yang can only imagine what had happened on Menagerie to make Blake snap like this- likely something to do with the white fang. Something bad.

"We don't know what exactly was their intentions, but something tells me, that Glynda has it all sorted out. So lets just go see her, and then we can talk more about it." Yang shakes Blake lightly. "Ok?"

"Yeah, fine, I- Sorry." The Faunus girl relents, her shoulders slumping. "Thing's have been…" She looks for a word. "Super-shitty…" her voice cracks a bit, she looks away. "Lets just go."

"After you," Yang huffs. "But you better tell me more later. I wanna help, you know?" Blake doesn't say anything back, but she does nod, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her face downturned.

Glynda was waiting for them, standing outside of a car, and smoking of all things. Yang raised a brow and stopped short.

The woman wasn't doing so well. She mirrored Blake, but even then Blake probably was better off than the poor headmistress. The council had been merciless on her. Constant demands that Beacon be reclaimed and Hunters be sent out, Glynda was unable to do either, Atlas had her by the throat, and the Council was refusing to see it.

"Good morning, you two. Blake, Yang." Glynda welcomed them. She straightened out her cardigan and snuffed out her cigarette. She coughed a bit. Her nose wrinkling. "Hate those things." She sighed. "Don't know why I got them." She opened the car door and got in. Yang looked to Blake and shrugged, and stepped into the car as well.

It smelled of more smoke, and yang cracked her window slightly. "So," Yang began, Glynda quickly cut her off, picking up her scroll and dialing a number.

"There here, I'll be with you shortly." She said and hung up. "Excuse me." She apologized. "Just arranging our meeting."

"Meeting?" Yang asked. "With who?"

Glynda pulled the car out of the lot and onto the street, dodging around several potholes. " There's something I want you two to see. It's why I called you here. I'd rather have had all of team RWBY, but I can't get through to Ruby or Weiss. Communication is still spotty."

"What is it?" Yang asked.

"You'll have to see for yourself."

…

The Vale City Maximum Security Prison was a foreboding prospect that not many of the more liberal minded citizens enjoyed, but it was tolerated because of its unfortunate necessity. It was meant to house some of the most hardened criminals in Vale Kingdom. Those locked behind its walls were always there for a life sentence or awaiting execution. Those detained within were of such deplorable nature, that the sun itself was denied to them as the majority of the facility was built beneath the ground.

There were activist groups that petitioned against he construction and design of such a facility, there were even protests every now and then, but the Prison was built regardless, and now Atlasian soldiers saw to its smooth operations. It was a trend that was extending further and further every day.

Glynda waved them through screening with a flash of her ID once more, Yang was glad that they were allowed to keep their weapons- knowing the headmistress had its perks. They came to an elevator, a bulky one, meant for hauling entire squads of riot police down into the depths should there ever be an outbreak, it was comfortably roomy with just the three of them plus two further soldiers as escort.

They descended for a solid minute, the doors sliding open to a brightly lit hallway, narrow but tall, with alcoves by the elevator built in such a manner as to permit fire going out but not coming in. There was a tripod set by the elevator, two of them, mounts for machine guns. The hallway was a funnel, and the only point of entry or exit. They came to the first cell blocks before long, and Yang rolled her eyes as the catcalls and leers began, Glynda was as unfazed as ever, Blake let her ears dart back and forth, she felt cramped in the close confines of the prison. Two more cell blocks went by, each one self-contained with its own sparse rec center and cafeteria.

Catwalks overlooked everything, soldiers in the stark white armor of Atlas positioned at intervals with automatic riflery. Yang idly sniffed- she could smell a faint trace of teargas, a riot had happened not long ago. She wondered over why? Four cellblocks passed before the fifth and final. Heavy steel security door guarded by a quartet of Atlasian Mechs, Yang eyed the robots ruefully. She couldn't stand the damn things- they had been in part responsible for what happened to Vale in the past. There had been plenty of upgrades and firewalling along with software and hardware revamps, it wasn't likely for them to be hacked like they had been before, but the stigma still remained. It would take time before anything else before people ever trusted the sight of those sleek white metal machines ever again.

The doors ground open, pulling apart at a snails pace, Yang half wanted a klaxon to blare like it did in the movies. She quirked a small wry grin at that. Glynda lead them in, the heavy steel doors shutting behind them with a sonorous thud. This was the solitary zone. Automated Atlas mechs patrolled the hallways relentlessly, armed with inline arm mounted weapons- no chance for a prisoner to get their hands on a loose rifle. There were cell doors along the walls, small slit windows to look into, along with a registry number and name. Glynda led them down the hallway, lined with eight-by-eights and screaming convicts. Yang didn't like this, she didn't like this at all. She wondered exactly how many people were here. How many of them were innocent?

"This way." Glynda motioned them into a room at the end of the long line of cells and machine-men. Yang recognized a viewing room, a reinforced Plexiglas window into a small, dimly lit room with a steel chair, a steel table, manacle clamps, and a teargas dispenser.

Glynda suggested that they take a seat. "We're bringing in one of the terrorists from the recent attack." She explained. "I know you'll have questions but I have to ask for you to be patient and not say anything, just let me run through with the questions. I promise, I can explain everything later, but I need for you to just follow me, and remain quiet." Blake and Yang shared a look; they didn't have any reason to go against Glynda, so they nodded.

They didn't have to wait long. In the room beyond, the side door opened, four Atlas soldiers entered, without word, thy parted and spread to the four corners of the room. They had weapons slung across their chests and held at the ready. One of them, perhaps the sergeant, singled to the doorway, and only then did the terrorist enter, escorted by one of the new-type Atlas mechs. Yang thought for a moment, that this might be a bit much before she got a clear look at the terrorist, and any doubts about the level of security they were taking were washed away.

The man was big, that much was certain. The orange uniform he wore was straining to contain the sheer immensity of the Hunk it was covering. They sat him in a chair that was bolted to the floor, and clamped heavy steel manacles on his arms and legs, and finally a heavy restraining belt around his waist and torso, securing him to the chair. As the soldiers did this, the man simply relaxed, his features calm and at peace. Yang had to admit, as she leaned closer to get a better look, that he was undeniably handsome in a stone-cold rugged sort of way. Close cropped hair, a sledgehammer jawline, and eyes with a harsh greyness to them, reminiscent of an overcast sky right before a thunderstorm. If she could place his age, it would have been in at around his early forties, but it was difficult to tell based on his appearances alone, he was well scarred across his face, most of them appeared to be old wounds but there were enough pinkish gashes that foretold of recent conflict of a visceral sort. Over all, the man was obviously a trained killer. Calmly taking in the details of his situation, the room he was in, the soldiers going to the corners, the mech standing behind him. That wasn't what troubled Yang, what had unsettled her, were the several steel objects lodged just above his right brow, she didn't' know what to make of them and was apt on asking just what they were when Glynda stepped forwards to the intercom, but it was the man who spoke first, his voice, deep, controlled, and resonating in the close confines of his prison.

"Headmistress Goodwitch. You have come again." He said. Yang and Blake paid close attention, he had an accent, they couldn't place it from anywhere they knew locally or foreign. They glanced at each other, Yang shrugged.

"Captain," Glynda said in reply, she wasn't cordial nor was she penalizing. It was as if she was trying to sound as neutral as possible. Glynda was not keen on taking him lightly. "I have some questions that I would like you to answer."

"Who have you brought today?" The gaze of the man passes over Blake and Yang. Yang casually waves. "What are their names?"

"You don't need to know that." Glynda replies. "Let's remain focused on my questions."

"For now." The 'Captain' acquiesces.

"What is your name?"

"I have already answered this."

"This is just for cooperation, please restate for the records."

"I am Scout Master Yenald. Captain of the Sixth Company."

"What is your full name, without the rank?"

"Yenald."

"Is that your first or last name?"

"I do not understand. Please explain."

"People have a first and last name, the first is their more casual name, and the last name ties them to their family. Did I explain that?"

"I understand now. My answer is unchanged. My name is simply Yenald."

"What organization do you represent?"

"I do not understand."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you wish to know who _I_ serve? Or do you wish to know who or what my brothers and I serve?" The man asks patiently. "I require clarification. Your language is unclear."

"What group are you- the individual in front of us- a part of?"

"I am of the Sixth Company Sun Descendants Chapter."

"Which is part of?"

"The Adeptus Astartes of the Imperium of Mankind."

"There is no such organization, or individual on Remnant. These things do not exist."

"No. On this world- Remnant as you call it- they do not exist."

"You acknowledge this, yet you persist in saying they do, every time you are asked for clarification."

"As I said. On Remnant, the Imperium of mankind does not currently exist. This will change in the future."

"What do you mean?"

"The Imperium of Mankind stretches across the known Galaxy. There are worlds that have been lost. This world may well be one of them. It is awaiting rediscovery."

"You are saying, that in space, there are other worlds, colonized by humans, and that humans have colonized other planets, and that somehow, a galaxy spanning empire has 'lost' a whole planet?"

"I have told you this many times. Will telling you it again, change your opinion on what is true and what you believe?"

"What I believe is hard science and facts. You are telling my neither." Blake's ears twitched, Glynda didn't sound sure of herself, even though the tale before them was blatantly impossible. "This entire story you keep telling is impossible."

"It is possible." The ma's inflection, his tone and expression, they don't change in the slightest as he calmly answers Glynda's questions, At times, he will shift his focus to Blake or Yang, and stare for a minute or more before returning his attention to Glynda. At times he would interrupt, and as her to rephrase something, or expand further on her question, in return his responses were analytical and blunt. He was neither angry nor was he happy, he was merely pleasant.

"Was your group responsible for the destruction of North Tarquin?"

"I am not familiar with that name. Why do you ask?"

"North Tarquin is a city to the direct North of Vale City. It was recently destroyed by unusual means, and only a single survivor was found. Everyone else was dead by decapitation."

The man stands up.

The steel manacles around his arms and legs bend and break, the belt around his waist and chest snap. The soldiers raise their rifles in an instant and train them on the man, Yang only realizing now that he was far larger than what she originally thought- inhumanly large. She would only come up to his chest.

"Repeat what you just said." His voice seemed to vibrate the double pane window, Yang and Blake looked to Glynda, who was somehow unfazed through all of this. "Immediately." He snaps.

"I said, that North Tarquin, is a city just north of here, and recently, within the last week, it has been destroyed. There was a single survivor, a young Faunus girl who is a Hunter. Is there something you know about this?"

"The corpses, you said they were desecrated. How?"

"They were decapitated, almost all of them. Their skulls were found separate from their bodies in piles. They were marked."

It isn't fear or panic that plays across his face, it wasn't dread or despair, it is anxiety, and it is somehow worse. "How many other settlements were found like this?"

"How do you know-"

"Answer me, Mortal!" Blake jumps, yang flinches, the guards in the room press themselves back against the walls as his voice thunders, unnaturally loud even through the glass window. "Six, or seven others? How many?"

Glynda fixes her glasses and purses her lips; Yang is incredulous, the bitch was an ice-cube. "Seven others were found in a similar state. How do you know this?"

The man curses something vile- it is in a cutting language that sounds like a rasp against bark, the man- Yenald- Is angry, clearly so. His chest heaves with a deep breath- and then he punches the steel table, his fist smashing a hole clean through, and buckling the thing down the middle like a bent can. Glynda says nothing for a moment. She lightly depresses the intercom button, and speaks, slow, and deliberately, as if she were trying to calm a caged beast. "Is there something that I should know?

Yenald paces around the ruined table with folded arms and a deep scowl, he was either oblivious or uncaring of the several weapons tracking him but unwilling to fire. "There is much you should know. But you are unwilling to accept it as truth. The cities and settlements that have fallen, the number holds significance." He pauses, and spits out a single word with bile and dread. "Eight…" He seethes, staring a hole in the far wall. "The endless number, endless as war, a mark of continuation." He looks to Glynda. "You must release us at once. This can no longer wait. They will strike again when the stars are right. You cannot fight them as you are now."

"What are you talking about. Who will attack?" Glynda demands.

"The Arch Enemy, Mortal!" Yenald shouts,

"Who is that? What is that? Why would they slaughter eight cities and only eight? Are they a cult? I need answers, Yenald!"

Yenald drags a hand down his face, a motion that is decidedly human but for some reason appears foreign when done by this man. He is silent for a spell, ignoring everything and focusing on his own breathing it would appear, he rolls his shoulders, once more placid and composed. "You must first release me and agree to my prior offer. Then I can tell you all that I know."

Glynda shakes her head, Yang wonders for a moment, just what deal that this man had offered in prior interrogations.

"I see," The man nods in thought, "I ask you to reconsider." He says. "I have read your history. And in the coming days, the relative peace you have enjoyed will be sundered. I could have killed these men and broke their machine, but I haven't. I could kill all the soldiers you are requesting right now, but I wont." Blake looks, she see's Glyndas hand holding down the silent alarm under the intercom.

"We could leave this facility at any time. We do not do this, because the threat that is amassing cannot be fought alone. So I answer your questions." His tone turns from calm amicability and idle bemusement, to that dour timbre that sends a trill of excitement racing up Yang's spine. "My patience is wearing thin. My mood grows sour. This interrogation is over. I give you a week to make your decision."

Yang turns to Glynda, with a heavy breath she ratchets he weapon, her gauntlet cycles in a shell. "Just give the word, and I'll go in there and ventilate him." She intones. She looks to Blake, who nods. "Us two and you should be more than enough."

Glynda shakes her head, resting a palm on the window. "You couldn't even touch him if you tried." She says. "She depresses the intercom stud. "We'll talk again soon."

"I hope you make the correct decision."

The interrogation room door opens, a full squad of heavily armed soldiers sweeps in with weapons trained- they don't so much as earn the giants attention, his stare fixated on the three figures behind the glass window.

…

Yang spits, kicking over a stool, she storms about a well furnished room, seething. They were alone now, in the personal office of Glynda's home. It is a wide room, centered around a long desk laden with an innumerable number of papers and reports, a candelabra hangs from the ceiling, casting a dim red glow about the pine and Oakwood floor and up the spring colors of the walls. Yang paces irksomely, Blake sits at the desk across from Glynda, head slouched, tracing patterns on the tablecloth. She is pensive about some thing. "I mean; fucking shit- what game is that fucker playing? Trying to be some 'mysterious cool-dude' or some shtick?" She scratches the back of her head.

"Is he really a terrorist?" Blake finally asks, ignoring yang's continuing tirade. Glynda glances over at Blake, idly wondering just what was wrong with the poor girl, before nodding. "It would appear so, yes."  
"Did they say that had any particular agenda?" She asks again. Glynda shifts uncomfortably. "Not anything concrete, they said that they were the 'enemies of mankinds foes'."

"Did they have any uniforms, any weapons? Anything like the white fang?" At this, Glynda stands from behind her desk.

"Nothing puts them with the white fang, not even on the same chart, really. But as for equipment..." She nods. "You should see for yourself." She sighs. Glynda stretches for a moment, clearly tired, exhausted even. The council had not been easy on her. Despite everything she had done, they were still some of her most vocal critics. Ozpin had been adept at taming them, and holding them at bay, and Glynda had learned much of that from Ozpin, but with the current crisis' stacking up on top of one another, they had more than enough ammunition to lob in her direction. Worse yet, is that it was sticking.

Glynda led Blake and Yang out of her office quarters, they instead of leaving, to what Blake assumed would be the police station or some sort of militia armory, they found themselves unlocking the door to the buildings basement. Down a long stairwell, the flickering lights barley illuminating the steps, and growing only darker when Glynda closes the door behind them, Yang can't help but feel claustrophobic in the tight confines. "Where are we going?" Yang asks. "Your secret lair? Some sorta hideout?"

Glynda shakes her head. "No. Just my basement. You wouldn't believe how many people overlook things like this." They reach the end of the stairs and a small workshop is before them, various tools and accrual is littered over several hardwood or steel tables, clamps, vices, and a few welding torches sit idly by, illuminated by overhead lamps. There is a pile of boxes, stacked in one corner, they take up most of the space.

Glynda draws her crop; a flick of the wrist sends the stack of boxes sliding across the floor much to the determent of Blake's ears. Yang glances over, and raises a brow with a lecherous grin aimed at Glynda. "Porno mags, Glynda? I never took you for the sort." Several boxes remained, stacked full of old magazines detailing women of the Faunus variety clad in little to nothing, in various compromising situations.

Again, Glynda sighs, and shifts the box away. "A cover, nothing more. And if you start spreading rumors, I'll have your hide." Covered in dust, and obscured by a pallet, a hinge is revealed, Glynda deftly opens this, reaching down, she grunts, and motioned for Blake and yang to assist her, the three women grab ahold of a large leather sack. Yang grits her teeth, taking most of the weight with her cybernetic arm and pulls. They drop it to the floor, and a clanking of metal is heard, Blake glances at Glynda, her question unspoken. "Yes, it's what you think it is." She says. She pulls open the canvas sack; dark gleaming metal shines in the rustic light.

"Have a look." Glynda says. Yang helps herself, reaching down she latches onto a long barreled, block weapon. She grunts as she lifts, switching to her false hand. Its weight was more than what she expected. It was designed for someone of much larger stature, the grip barley fit in her hand and she had to stretch to reach a finger into the guard, and it was only with her cybernetic that she was able to rack the slide.

The weapon- a shotgun in appearance- was old, its edges were worn, and its paint was chipped, revealing dull, silvery grey metal beneath. It was well weathered in places, and small dents and scratches were all too apparent, despite this, it was clearly maintained to a high degree, almost lovingly tended too. She rolled the weapon in her hands, looking it over. The breech worked cleanly, the slide was oiled, the screws and bolts were all in working condition and even had protective caps over them. There was not a facet of the bulky weapon that was out of order or misused. She sniffed, a scent catching her attention, leaning in she sniffed again, and her nose rankled, not out of disgust but confusion. Incense, like smoked lavender, lingered on the gun.

Blake had in her hands, a large, blockish pistol inscribed with a winged skull on the side. Its grip was firm but cold, and the weapon itself was heavy but solid- it felt comforting in a strange sense, it felt powerful. The bore was wide, almost too wide, like whatever it was meant to be firing was made to deal with tanks, or large grimm beasts, but it was a sidearm, and sidearms were normally weapons reserved for anti-personnel situations.

"There's also this." Glynda walks over to a closet, recessed behind several planks of old, moldering wood, was a long silver pole that barley drew any attention. Blake and Yang watch as she removes and holds the pole with something approaching reverence.

"Uh, Mind explaining?" Yang asks, fed up with the show but not tell session.

"This was all that I could squirrel away from the Atlas soldiers, there's more, but I couldn't risk it." She shakes her head. "This thing in particular was a nightmare to smuggle out."

"You stole these?" Blake asks. Questioning. "Why."

"Because of this." Glynda sets a large, copper thing, that it takes a second to identify as an unfired round of some sort- larger, and squat, it looks like something loaded into armored vehicles.

"You're looking at a forty-millimeter, armor piercing, micro-rocket propelled explosive projectile with an on-board nano-computer in charge of keeping this thing stabilized mid flight. This pistol here, fires these things on fully or semi automatic." Gynda points at the shotgun. "That weapon has at least seven different types of munitions ranging from depleted uranium sabot slugs that can punch through tank armor, to a cloud of metallic pellets that burn with white phosphorus but have the range of a nine-millimeter round and twice the stopping power- while being on fire." She looks at Blake and Yang, her expression is one of dire import. "Then, if that wasn't enough, there was a suit of powered armor that could stop an anti tank round at point blank range, a handheld scanning tool that could pick up a signal on the other side of the planet, several knives with a micrometer thin edge, and lastly, _this._ " Glynda taps the pole.

"A portable stripper pole?" Yang cocks her head and grins. Glynda fixates her with a withering glare."

"This _staff_ , defies all known science, and is made out of a material that shouldn't exist." Blake and yang glance at each other, each one just as confused.

"Could you explain more, please?" Blake asks.

"This staff is for all intents and purposes, could be classified as well and truly indestructible. I had an old boyfriend run it through some tests at the Vale City Micro-avionics and applied engineering labs, what they came back with, was, well… I was told that this staff could be thrown into the sun, and pass out the other side, completely unchanged. It maintains a constant temperature of thirty-six degrees, and its weight seems to change based on whoever is holding it."

"What?" Blake snaps, incredulous. "None of what you said made any sense."

"I know, but it's true." She sighs. "Blake, hold out your hand."

Blake does so, and Glynda lays the staff across her open palm, there is weight there, Blake can feel it, and when Glynda lets go- it changes. Nothing perceptible with her eyes happens, but she can feel the weight lift, becoming lighter, but not light enough to where it becomes untenable, enough weight to swing with but not so much that it would swing her around. She tries this, a few practice movements- fluid and unhurried, it was like the staff was reacting _with_ her movements instead of remaining an inert lump of metal, her grip almost feels natural along the length, snug but loose. She's never held a staff weapon before in her life, but with this she feels like a natural. She runs her eyes over the surface of the staff, it's dull silvery hue is unmarked and unblemished by any sort of damage. She looks up at Glynda. "What is this thing?" She can only ask.

"Frightening in the extreme." Glynda shakes her head. "Whatever it's made of, whatever it is, it's not like anything on Remnant. Neither are those two guns, or that round. Each one of them is constructed out of some sort of super-material, but nothing like that staff. Even so, they are extremely dense and light, and technologically superior to anything on Remnant, what's more, none of them have any trace of Dust on or within them."

"You can't be serious," Yang laughs. "What you're saying is…"

"I wouldn't say it otherwise."

"You didn't answer the question earlier, about 'stealing' these things?" Blake repeats, she finds herself holding onto the staff, rolling it in her hands, it's bigger than her, made for someone quiet larger, but she finds that she'd rather have this staff, this seemingly plain lump of metal, over her own twin weapons, she doesn't even feel guilty about admitting it to herself.

"Atlas has their hands all over them. There was a suit of armor, shot to hell but still functional- it was powered by a backpack generator that didn't use dust, and was armored to all hell. The person who was wearing it had cybernetic implants that allowed him to wear it like a second skin without any loss in agility or movement." Glynda pulls out her scroll, and draws up several pictures of a red and silver humanoid suit, it's surface was scarred with all manner of damages, and its front plate was a mess of wires and meshwork. "The wearer was only lightly wounded, nothing more than some tissue damage despite taking direct hits from anti-tank missiles and hunter weapons."

"The person wearing this went up against Hunters?" Yang asks. "As in, multiple?"

"They did more than that, they won." Glynda closes her scroll. "Two were critically injured, one was maimed with his face melted off with acid, and another was killed from having their entire body broken apart." Glynda explains. Yang is silent. "This wasn't done from range, either, it was in close quarters combat, hand to hand- the wearer of this armor had no weapon, and beat a hunter to death- with his fists." She snaps. "Need I say anything more, Yang, or are you starting to see what this means?"

She fixes her glasses. "It means that what the gentleman in the cell said earlier, wasn't a lie, perhaps not about everything, this whole 'imperium of man' thing is too ridiculous. But, if he wanted to get out, there would be nothing we could do to stop him, and before you ask, no, he wasn't the one who was wearing this armor, there are two others like him, and one of them, is very big, and very, very angry." Glynda takes the staff from Blake, she lets go almost reluctantly. Glynda returns the weapons to there hiding places and leads them up back to her office area. "The captain, as he calls himself, he's given me a week to make a choice."

"What choice is that?" Blake asks. Glynda doesn't say anything for a moment. When she does, Blake and Yang wishes she hadn't.

"You can't really be serious," Yang tries to force a laugh into her voice, but it doesn't come.

"The Council is in deadlock, and Atlas has a stranglehold on Vale, they're arguing for a push against beacon, and if they do it and succeed, what's to stop them from staying? They could just as easily maintain that there is still a clear and present threat and before you know it, Vale is Atlas territory. What's more, the man in the cell with the impossible weapons says that there's a worse threat than Atlas, the White Fang, the Grimm, and Salem, and I have no choice but to believe him. We've been losing cities along the borders of Vale for months now, and white fang activity has ratcheted up by several degrees, and then there's the northern massacre's, which still have no explanation or answer, frankly, I don't see any other option at this point."

"I'm against this." Blake says. "Or, I would be. But…" her shoulders slump, she leans back in her chair "The world doesn't make sense anymore." She shakes her head, that tiredness reasserting itself in her posture. "Is that why you called us?" She asks.

"It is." Glynda admits. "I have several other hunter teams with me that I know I can trust, I also have several police and military officers that are willing to turn a blind eye and clear the streets of any civilians, they don't know the whole extent of everything but it's better that they don't."

"You're expecting this to get messy?" Yang tenses. "You think people are going to get hurt?"

"It's necessary."

"It's bullshit, that's what it is!"

"Where do you think you are, Yang Xao Long?" Glynda snaps, slapping the desk, her frustration exploding out of her. You think you're so entitled because you don't kill people? You think that because you're a hunter that it makes you a hero? That you don't have to get your hands dirty? Let me tell you something, the reason why you lost to that asshole Adam, was because he was willing to kill and you weren't." Any anger in yang was iced, the sheer vitriol rolling from Glynda was never something she thought she ever see. There was real hate in the headmistress. She was always a cold woman, a harsh disciplinarian that did not tolerate fuck-ups, but this was a whole different side of her. "That goes for you too, Blake. You're skittish, you're afraid. But I don't need to tell you that, you seem to have worked that out yourself. I could go on about the rest of your teammates; I could nitpick and tell you all just why I think you are a failure as a Hunter Team. I could say that you think this is a game and that you're only job is to save people and kill 'monsters'. But instead, let me tell you this, and be done with it. Hunter's are mercenaries. They are contract soldiers. They are criminals and worse. Do you think that the academies were made solely just to fight the Grimm? No. They were made to _control_ the Hunters, to put limits on them, to monitor them, and if necessary, prune away the undesirables. Think about this. How long do you think it would take before Hunters started viewing people without their powers as humans used to view Faunus?"

There wasn't any answer, that Blake or Yang was willing to give. The silence in the room was enough.

"You have my contact information, and you know what's planned. You can either help me, or you can go home. See yourselves out. I have business to attend to."

…

There was nothing to say, between the black haired Faunus and the yellow haired human. Yang was silently fuming, her fists clenched hard enough that the metal in her robotic one creaked. "I can't believe she said that shit." Yang broke the silence first. "She's got some damn nerve."

"She isn't wrong." Blake responds.

"The fuck she is," Yang snorts.

"No, really." Blake says. "About everything, she wasn't wrong. About us, about what we do. We've been naïve." Blake says. "The Grimm aren't the only enemy out there, neither is Salem, nor the White Fang."

"What do you mean?"

"Menagerie is dead." Blake says, her voice almost catches. "Everyone is gone. I don't know how."

"What?"

"Excuse me," The voice is young, but somber with a childish inflection of delight, like how one would feel when upon finding an old favorite toy long fallen into disrepair, a melancholy reunion of better days gone past. Blake and Yang look down, it is a young Faunus girl, garbed in a black dress that fell past her knees, and embroidered with simple white lace along the hem. She was a Faunus, the ruddy orange fur of her ears, and the tail sprouting from a hole in her dress attested to that as much as her eyes.

The two Huntresses' didn't focus for long on her eyes. They were, wrong… somehow, they couldn't' quite place the color- nor could they remember it after so quickly looking away- as if second-guessing themselves. Despite her cherubic features, her auburn hair tied back in a pony tail with a red bow, her braided bangs, and the childish conductors baton of a marching band she carried, Yang felt herself instinctively on edge, and Blake had stepped back slightly, shifting her weight onto her back foot, ready to react at a moments notice.

"You lost, kid?" Yang asks.

"You, per chance, wouldn't happen to be Blake Belladonna, and Yang Xao Long?" The kid asks, her expression is uncanny, like a mask, unmoving and frozen on an expression of innocence, completely at odds with her speech that came through as relentlessly forced, and artificial.

"…yes." Blake responds, Yang only coining onto that this girl knew them by name and appearance.

"Oh. how wonderful. Truly this is marvelous. Is the Brother Capt-… Ah," She fidgets, her head snapping down, looking at the back of her knuckles, playing over the baton, tapping it against her leg several times, her head snaps back up. "Ah, no- too soon, yes, much too soon. My apologies," She grins, wider than before, "I apologize, I'm," She freezes. "Under the weather… Yes."

"Okay." Blake nods slowly. "I hope you get better…"

"What?" The girl deadpans, cocking her head, her expression unmoving. "Why would I need to-" She flinches, like a spark rolled up her spine, her back arching slightly. "Oh, yes-yes, right, yes, I see- I see, yes, of course- many thanks, I hope I do so as well, yes." She fakes a cough, painfully obvious and all the more unsettling with how her smile does not shift in the slightest. "Yes. Regardless of my corporeal wellness, I assume that you ah," She hesitates again. Freezing in place like a switched off animatronic. "Oh, dear." She fidgets. "I forgot- I have to introduce myself, yes, of course, how could I be so crass, so arrogant, how poor of me- yes, no, wait, no, no…" She freezes again, "Stop it. Not now. Not now. Yes. My name- yes, _My_ name, as in _My_ name… yes, Elyla, Torwell, A huntress, Faunus, Age… is it? Yes, it is, Eight-teen, I am Female, as in I lack a… Ah, I see, yes that does seem…" Her face changes expression, a grimace, something like confusion and anger mixed together to form something truly frightful. Blake is about ready to call it a day, and Yang is not far behind her, she wonders if this is some sort of set up, or a ruse, anything to give reason for the sudden arrival of the maniac little girl before them.

"Be as it may- Fine. Do as you must." She snaps aloud, she goes limp, stumbling back for a second, then righting herself, blinking rapidly, a fearful wide eyed stare and timid frown of embarrassment, her cheeks flush a rosy red. "I-I, I uh, I Have Autismsorrysorry-" She stammers off into some harried half-apology half explanation that trails off into silence when a crowd starts to form. "Sure, whatever, just…" Yang reaches down and takes the girl by the shoulder- she nearly lets go, it was like grabbing ice. "Lets just… Move along." The Faunus girl gets the hint, falling into step behind them, head down, curling a braid around a finger shame faced.

They were clear a block before Yang looked back at the girl, half expecting her to have vanished- she was still there, Yang didn't know weather to count that as a good thing just yet.

"So, uh." Yang begins, clearing her throat. The girl glances up, not meeting her gaze. Her eyes were a pale amber-brown color Yang notices, and perfectly normal, if a bit watery, she didn't know why she didn't notice that before. "You said you're a huntress?" She asks.

"Yeah, yeah…" The girl mutters. "Not very good but…" She shrugs half-heartedly and her ears twitch and flatten.

"I see…" Yang glance

s at Blake. "You live around here then? With your team?" Yang asks.

"My team?" The girl- she called herself Elyla Torwell, Yang recalls- she hiccups, "My, team. Yeah, they uh, they... I mean. I…" Pain and hurt flash across her expression, "They'd be better off without me…"

"Oh," The conversation was going nowhere, and if she was being honest, even Ruby would have ditched a creep like Elyla, there was being tolerant, then there was this. "Well, did you want to say anything to us?" Yang hesitantly asks. "You seemed kidna…" She stops herself.

"Just wanted to say high and…" She's quiet for a moment, her ears perk up and she swallows, she clasps her hands together. "Er, just, well… Please make the right choice." She mutters something, low enough that they didn't catch it. "-have a good day and I'm sorry about your home miss Belladonna things will get better I promise- bye." Yang and Blake don't try to stop her as she turns and quickly walks away, her ears twitch incessantly like a nervous tic, she vanishes around a corner and is gone.

"The fuck was that." Yang snaps in a half whisper.

Blake says nothing; she takes a closer look at her surroundings, her ears perked, swiveling at every little sound. She takes Yang by the arm. "Lets get some coffee. I've something to tell you."

…

"I told you not to."

It was important.

"They looked ready to run."

They would not. They must not.

"What if they do? What if you're wrong?"

Then I kill them.  
"What? Why!"

The taint must be stopped.

"I don't understand…"

It is best that you do not.

"…You scare Chiki, you know."

It does not matter.

"But Chiki is nice! And you shouldn't stalk Nicole like you do."

It is necessary.

"But why though?"

The taint must be stopped.

"You should at least, well, let me talk, and stuff, you know, you don't really come off as… you aren't a people person, I'm sorry, it's just that…"

It is not important.

"But it is! You keep scaring people and they don't like us, and you make us say stuff out loud that you shouldn't and-"

That is enough.

"Wait! Please, no! I don't want to go back there! I'm sorry!

I am sorry.

"I'm afraid- it's dark, the little things- they hurt me- my skin burns-"

I am sorry. There is no other way.

"It hurts…"

I am sorry.

"Hurts-"

I am sorry.

"I- just let me di-eee..."

I am sorry. There is no other way.

…

You are Elyla Torwell again, Huntress of team CENL- Central, you roll your spine, the sensation of flesh overwhelming for a moment, and then you open _your_ eyes. The face you wear again placid and unmoving. It takes a moment to reorient; you try and pay no attention to what has become your punishment, that punishment being the hushed whimpering in the back of your mind of 'Her.' You retread your steps, before long you knock on a fine wooden door. You wait, and then you knock again, louder this time. The door opens.

The Woman is tired. Bags hang under her eyes and her expression is one of muted disappointment and consternation. Her posture stiffens and her lips purse at the sight of you.

"I did what you wanted. Please, leave me alone." She says, her tone curt, strained.

"Let me in." You say.

"We had a deal."

"Let me in." You say.

"Why should I?" False bravado serves no purpose, you look at her, taking your gaze off of the middle distance behind her for a moment.

"I will kill you." You do not jest.

She backs away out of the doorframe and you enter.

You walk upstairs, to the office you are so familiar with. It was here that you met this woman, unannounced and with less cooperation on her part- something that was rectified for future visits.

"I told you, I did what you asked." She repeats as you pull the desks seat out, you barely come up to table height. It doesn't matter. "You said that you wouldn't come here again. You promised."

"I lied." You say simply enough.

"You said you couldn't lie!"

"That was a lie too." You set your weapon on the table. The baton, an ebony black thing with ivory tips, had another name some time ago- Comet. You croon, and the daemon inside whimpers. She fears you. She fears what you will do to it once you are done even more. She thinks that if she cooperates, that you will free her. She is stupid. You had forgotten her name, Videl? Vydel? It did not matter. She let herself fall. Now she serves you.

"…What do you want?" The woman asks, she keeps her distance from you, she wants to tremble, but she manages to keep herself composed well enough.

"I must stop the Taint." You say. "You will help me." You have said this before, you have said this countless times, and yet still she asks-

"What is the taint?"  
Like clockwork.

"An infection. A rot. It must be cut out." And like clockwork comes your answer.

Her exasperation and anger overcomes her fear for the moment, and she forgets her place, she steps towards you. "Why wont you tell me what that is?" She insists. "Hell, you wont even tell me what you are!"

"You speak of Hell?" You muse aloud. "No. You do not yet know what Hell is" You stand, climbing onto the desk, and she goes ridged.

You dig your nails into the nubile skin under your jaw until you can curl your fingers and begin to pull. Red meat and skin coming unstuck from your face as you pull upwards- the whimpering in the back of your mind begins to shout at you again. Your skin begins to crack and burn, sulfurous fumes spill out from under your eyeballs as the fluid inside them begins to boil.

 _"_ _I must show you what Hell really is."_

 _..._

 **A/N: W++ QUALITY MEMES**


	4. The Orphans III

**A/N: You ever wonder what would happen if Rawbooty and Celestene ever just got it all out of their system and just decided to FUUUCK? Like, what would happen? Also, they both basicly have shards of the emperors soul or whatever inside them so would it be like Incest or some shit?**

 _..._

 _Hell was an old legend, some said it came from ancient Terra, passed through the ages; a story about the afterlife passed down through the years and told to children to keep them in line. When they grew older, they realized it for what it was- a story, a myth to be forgotten about._

 _Hell existed in the realm of the living._

 _Its name was Ghul-Khan._

 _Palisades made of body parts reaching twenty feet in height simply because it was faster than filling sandbags. Sections of no-mans-land that were crossed off as impassable because of corpse mountains that had to be burned away by the inferno guns of titans or destroyed by artillery bombardments._

 _New rivers and lakes were formed, made up of the combined refuse of war- blood, oil, promethium, and countless chemical washes all congealing together. These mixtures so toxic, that chemical warfare specialist units siphoned them off as fuel when their own reserves were depleted._

 _Glassy eyed war-babies-turned-soldiers, staring upwards at a sky they could no longer see, because of the radioactive fallout from countless bombardments of nuclear grade bunker-buster munitions used to try and create a gap in the enemies defenses._

 _The burning comets that punctured the gloom overhead, the contrails of fire that singled another dying warship being sucked into the planets gravity well, the countless hundreds of thousands of souls aboard condemned to death in an adamantium sarcophagus, the impact of their tombs reshaped planetside battle lines daily._

 _The slow grinding attrition, hopes death as the days wore on into years and then decades. Bunker-babies growing up alongside their parents in the trenches, replacing their posts on the line, and having their own children that would repeat this cycle over and over for years to come._

 _Idiot orders coming down the wire from commanders, who were as detrimental as the enemy, if not more so, entire regiments were put to the bolt pistol or turned into legionaries for failing to comply with charging through a known minefield._

 _Artillery fell like rain, the ground writhed and buckled like a storming ocean, waves of muck, dirty bodies and blood rising up like a wave and crashing back down over trenches, burying the men within under meters of offal._

 _The air became toxic, gas and poison, smoke and ash-fog, on good days it was only several meters view range, on worse, you were blind, and the seals of your mask started corroding._

 _The medics stopped carrying their bags, and instead carried only laspistol; it had just a good a chance of healing the wounded, and was a less painful alternative altogether._

 _There was no such thing as veterans, there was no point in rank, everyone was the same- a warm corpse waiting to cool, not knowing it was already dead._

 _Bloodlice, gutflies, peppergnats and snakerot, a cornucopia of parasites and microscopic malcontents infested every guardsman, the stink of their bodies attracting any number of these things, the writhing corruption that laced their poorly sealed rations was shown in their stool. Those with it worst, were sent up and over first, so as to end their pains sooner and perhaps gain another inch or two for the ones behind._

 _The significance of living and dying lost all meaning, madness held the reigns in the interim, what was a bright eyed boy a moment ago, and now a half-slagged corpse from a snipers mercies made no difference, the only thing that mattered was that who could steal the bodies fresh new boots first, and the ration of amasec they hopefully had in their kit._

 _Trench cities several miles long and wide, growing in size every year, stretching outwards and growing deeper still, families were raised up in bunkers and brought down in bags, vehicles from the first days of the war were dragged back off the field and used as bunk houses and shelters, cannibalized for parts if need be, for those machines still working._

 _A man strapped to a post, the rotting stumps of his legs just above the knee were crawling with wriggling worms, the Commissar was whipping the man, lashing him for failure of duty. He did not participate in his platoons latest offensive because his legs had fallen off, and he was coughing up blood, still, he was whipped, and even commissar knew how stupid it was to do so._

 _Desperation of the worst kind, rations of corpsestarch and grease, dragged in through the muck of the backlines or airdropped by low flights of Valkyries, the scrapped remains of these shipments were festering dens of infection, whatever manufactorum that created them not up to standards but used anyways. So the freshly dead were used, strips of long-meat and bones used as stew. The commanders, the commissars, even the priests themselves, they turned a blind eye, or were complicit in it themselves_

 _Men learned to adapt. Men learned to keep their head down. Hate and bitterness kept them alive in the end and whispered prayers became muttered half things before they instead said nothing at all and choked down another rubbery piece of meat that they tried not to think of being the man who was next to them just yesterday._

 _The final charge the exultation of after eighty years of shit and guts the end finally being in sight, the last bastion of enemy resistance, the last holdout, the last line in the sand before they could get off of the hateful rock that was called Ghul-Khan._

 _The last bastion of enemy resistance was empty, the city behind it derelict. They had been fighting against servitor manned positions that had only now just run out of ammunition._

 _The rouge trader that had been the start of it all, had died thirty years previously. The war had been over for twenty. No one had bothered to tell the Fendoran 31_ _st_ _nor any of the other guard regiments that had been left abandoned on Ghul-Khan, a world long since discarded, its value obsolete._

This is the story that Hastis remembers; it is the story that was passed down from his great, great, grandfather, former colonel of the Fendoran 31st.

Hastis does not know why he recalls such a dark dream only now.

Hastis sucks air into his lungs.

He opens his eyes, he unclenches his hands, his body is painfully tense, fear is ripping him apart from the inside. Panic is alight in his veins, he wants to scream, but he has a measure of himself.

He is afraid, but he is of his wits, discipline takes over. He is staring up at a sky, a blue, bright, and cloudless sky. He is lying on his back, sand is underneath him. He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling them, kneading the sand below him. Warm and coarse, a fine top layer that would make for hellish sandstorms that could rip up a grown mans lungs should they breathe it in. This much he knew from hard fought days on a distant and dead world.

He checked his holster; he found his weapon, he relaxed- he wasn't without a means of defense. He regulates his breathing. He gains his bearings. The pain in his hand helps focus him. It is an anchor to consciousness. He needs to know where he is. He makes to stand; the shifting surface beneath him nearly topples him over before he gains his balance, the familiar gait of sand walking snapping back to the forefront of his mind like a familiar glove. The days of his youth remembered so fondly. Memories to be savored later, for the moment confusion triumphs in the forefront of his mind.

There is just the whisper of the wind, rolling over melancholy golden brown dunes and cracked pale earth, interspersed with wheat brown shrubs and brown skeletal trees, ruined masonry and scattered sandbags, the shapes of bodies and wrecks of battle, buried in the sand, expanding outwards in every direction. It doesn't make sense to him; he looked at his hand, the bleeding wound still there, and the pain from it an anchor to sanity. What had happened was neither a dream nor a nightmare. He is in a desert, surrounded by the ruins and wreckage of battle, but gone was the field the parts played upon.

What happened?

Hastis fell to his knees, a wave of unbelievable exhaustion forcing him down. Every ache, and every pain across his war-torn body was now manifesting upon his consciousness. His limbs riddled with shrapnel, his legs stitched up by autogun fire, a stab wound through one of his hands, burns across his face, he felt them all now and he was so mind numbingly tired. He wished himself dead at this very moment, he wished for The Emperor to take him now and spare him from living through whatever hell this was. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, almost ready to weep, almost on the verge of crying.

 _"'_ _ello?"_ Shouts and cries, the sounds of distress. _"There ah' buggerin' soul out there?"_

Hastis looked up, pulling himself to his feet once more, he looks around him as the wind begins to churn the air, dust and sand whisking over the dunes like small near invisible waves.

 _"_ _I'm bleedin' stuck ina' roit crimp, I can't diggy me-self out- ello!?"_

Hastis is on the crest of a small dune, just beneath him, at the base of it, a figure is trying to pull themselves from the sand like some undead birth from a shallow grave. He can see the armor plated facemask of a Grenadier, the armored gauntlets grabbing at sand that offers no purchase, only instead threatening to bury the soldier once and for all. Hastis jumps, lands on his haunches and slides down the side of the dune on his back. His boots hit the sand and it nearly threatens to swallow him, Hastis recognized it immediately; soft sand, the deserts cruelest trap, it was useless against him, he leans into it, spreading himself out across the surface, he begins to swim.

"Hang on." He says. "I got you, trooper."

He reaches out, burned and torn up hand grabbing the searching gauntlets of the grenadier, locking tight to him. Hastis rolls over, finding purchase against more solid ground, he pulls and shimmies his way out of the sand trap, pulling the struggling trooper with him as he does so.

"Don't struggle, you'll make it worse for yourself." It takes a minute more and then he is standing, gripping with both hands he leans back and hauls the heavily armored guardsman free of what would be his suffocating end.

"Easy, there it is." The Grenadier pulls himself onto solid ground, his breath rasps through the grill of his respirator. Exhaustion clear enough even with the slabs of carapace armor over his frame.

 _"_ _Throne alive."_ The guardsman veteran wheezes, doubled over, in the process of arresting his gasping breath. _"Thought that was it."_ He shakes his head. _"Mighty large thanks to ye,"_ Straightening up, the grenadier takes a moment to check his surroundings, the opportunity to survey the sudden emergent desert in any detail lost in his feverish brush with a sandy demise. _"The fack are we? The fack's all this?"_

Hastis shook his head, he had hoped against reason that this guardsman would somehow have an insight that he didn't. "Not the faintest damn clue." He said, but Hastis is denied the chance to ask a question of his own by the bright spark of a bullet collapsing against the heavy front carapace armor of the grenadier standing across from him. The bullet smacks off and ricochets into the sand. Hastis stares at the newly formed dent in the grenadier's armor- the grenadier himself staring down in bewilderment before they lock gazes and simultaneously drop to the ground.

 _"_ _Bloody-shite!"_ The grenadier coughs out, he pulls his lasgun, strapped to his chest- thankfully preventing it from being lost in the swft-sand. He scans quickly- the hazy shapes in the distance melting into focus along with fresh autogun reports and bullets coughing up small geysers of sand around them. " _Thirty-eight to me left! Four targets!"_

"I see 'em." Hastis grunts, pulling free his revolver, it would do little good at this range but it felt better to have it in his grip. The grenadier wordlessly replies with a burst of unaimed suppressive lasfire as a bullet cracks off of his helmet, bits and pieces of hardened flakweave and heavier plasteel chips away. The Grenadier doesn't even so much as let it phase him. In the distance, staggering through the sand, the ragged sackcloth-wearing damned souls from whatever desperate battlefield that they had all been swept away from stagger doggedly towards Hastis and his erstwhile companion. Three of them, all armed with gristly autoguns spiked with barbs and welded spines. The Grenadier aims and puts a long volley into the chest of one of the cultists, clothing burns away and flesh craters and burns as he stitches a line of heat up their torso. Hastis takes his revolver in a double fisted grip, mildly more concerned about the incoming heretic ballistics, he'd been shot enough today as it was and he didn't know how much more trauma he could take before stimms, faith, and adrenalin no longer carried him.

" _Ah- Boss? Gotta bit of an issue-!"_ The grenadier barked, there was panic in the veterans voice, Hastis didn't let it shake him, he pulled the trigger- and blew the head clean off of the last cultist. Then he saw it, and he swore.

"Sacred Shite, not again-"

The desert was littered with vehicle wrecks and shattered masonry- all scattered as if they had all been dropped from a great height and strewn about the sands. Ahead of Hastis and the Grenadier, there was a chunk of rubble; a section of wall spearing out of the sand like a dropped knife stands in the dirt if sharp enough. Lumbering out from behind it, in dulled and scarred armor, horns crowning its helm like a dark king, was yet _another_ traitor Astartes, corrupt and opulent with its gene-wrought power.  
Hastis and the grenadier, were stranded, out in the open of a desert, clearly in sight, and armed with but a lasgun equipped with a single shot grenade launcher, a laspistol, a hot-shot revolver, and several knives. To say that were underequipped and outmatch was not so much an understatement as it was a lie. This was in the same realm of a god crushing an ant underfoot.

The distance between them was around five-hundred yards.

The traitor Astartes paused to look at them. And only then did Hastis, in the sheer rush of adrenalin and fear that washed over him notice.

"He hasn't' got a gun."

" _And that matters, How?"_ The Grenadier snapped.

Hastis scrambled to his feet, "On me." He grabbed the Grenadier by the back of the collar, hauling him up- muscles straining against the weight of his armor. Blood began to pool over his right eye, and only then did it occur to him just how stupid this gambit was. Any doubts ceded into frantic silence when he could hear sand being crushed underfoot by metal boots.

" _Shite-Shite-Shite,"_ The Calibrian swears a storm, staggering after Hastis, the thundering steps closing the distance- they had only seconds if not even that. Hastis throws himself against the sandy embankment, jumping, digging his hands into the course sand- the Grenadier jumps, lands next to him and with boots pushing against the slope they haul themselves upwards- Hastis can feel the approach of the traitor marine through the ground, pulsating up his arms and legs, thundering in his head like a murderous countdown. He doesn't look back, he pulls himself upwards, scampering up the slope that he had so recently slid down in rescue of the grenadier next to him- then it happened.

A choked, barking scream, the whine of servos long since in need of repair, the crashing of millions of grains of sand against ancient ceramite. Hastis rolls over, digging the heels of his boots into the slope to stop himself from sliding downwards.

Hastis stared for a long moment, and couldn't keep a grin from spreading across his face.

This was a sight.

This was a sight he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

Wallowing up to its waist and sinking quickly beyond that, was the traitor marine. Ensnared by quicksand, thrashing like a mad beast as the desert eats him alive. The grenadier turns around, looking over his shoulder, it takes him a second to realize what he was seeing, and only now realizing what Hastis' plan was.

" _You mad tosser."_ He quips and copies Hastis, rolling onto his back, heels digging in. He brings up his lasgun and sights in on the traitor Astartes helmet. Hastis reaches over and pushes his barrel down.

"No," He shakes his head, still grinning. "Don't ruin this."

 **"** **Gutless weaklings- you would think to mock me!?"**

Hastis flinches, the heavy voice of the traitor Astartes was a bellowing thing seeped in malice. The dark warrior clawed at the sand that was now reaching up past his chest, obscuring the eight-pointed star that was emblazoned upon it. The marine stares with palpable hate up at Hastis and the grenadier.

 **"** **I will have your eyes for this- I'll use your tongues to scrape clean my armor- I'll see you as a smear across my fist-!"**

 _"_ _Big words comin' from a bigger git that can't handle a lil' sand."_ The Grenadier snorts, laughing. Hastis cuffs him across the shoulder- he shouldn't be one to talk.

" **I will bury you in the ashes of your vile world! I will not die like this!"**

 _"_ _Sheesh, how much longer will this take?"_ The grenadier leisurely asks, turning to look at Hastis.

"Not sure." Hastis shrugs. "Keeps thrashin' around like that, maybe a minute or more?" Hastis grins.

 **"** **Do not mock me!"**

" _Aw, shut it, you scrapmetal git!"_ The Grenadier hefts his lasgun, a squeeze of the trigger sparks several harmless bursts of heat across the only exposed part of the traitor marine left- his helmet.

Hastis leans forwards slightly, tipping the chaos marine a merry salute. "Welcome to the sands, tin-man. Enjoy your stay."

The horns of the chaos Astartes slip under the sand, the surface churns and warps as the desert claims another victim, and then after a minute has passed, they cannot even feel the vibrations of a power armored body straining against the growing weight of the deserts clutches.

Hastis and the grenadier release a breath they didn't know they had been holding, and they laugh. It wasn't entirely sane, nor was it one of mirth. It was the uneasy cackle of two men who had escaped death by the sheerest margins imaginable.

The Great Reaper that slept in the void had breathed across the back of their necks and ran the blade of its scythe over their exposed arteries and then it had retreated for a time.

" _Sweet throne above I thought's that was it."_ The Grenadier collapses back against the incline. " _I think I shite me-self."_

"You're not the only one." Hastis groans and turns over, pulling himself up the rest of the way. He reaches down and takes the grenadier by the hand- Hastis notes that the mans gloves are singed and burnt, melted in places and fused with his skin. He wondered what exactly had happened to him.

Hastis often wondered what had happened in general.

They get to their feet, the crest of the dune providing an ample enough view of the surrounding area, the cascading golden-red sand and the endless tombstone-like jagged remains of buildings and the hulls of vehicles- imperial and traitor alike.

 _"_ _So._ " The grenadier begins. " _What you reckon happened?"_ He asks.

Hastis shook his head in honest confusion. "I've not the faintest facking clue."

 _"_ _You not shitten me? Loik, this aint that sorta inquisitional thing of 'If I told ye, I'd have-ta put a bolt in yeh scalp' sorta thing?"_

"I only know like a couple of those sorta secrets and this isn't covered by any of them." Hastis says. "What's the last thing you remember?" He asks.

The grenadier thinks for a moment. " _I was with the Lt, we were pulling open a gap in the lines, they'd had some trenches dug in and we were clearin' and burnin' them out. The churchy-place was justa' head of us, and then…"_ The grenadier thought for a moment more, growing silent and shaking his head. " _I was next to one of our tanks, one of Challengers lot. Some heretic blokes were of the mind to try an' swarm her while she put the hurt on some more of those damned tin-men, she was peelin' them open roight and good, she was- but she took a hit- a rocket, I think an…"_ The grenadier holds up his hands, flakweave gloves and flesh seared together, letting his lasgun hang from his torso. " _Next thing I know, I'm tryna' push one of her cannon barrel offa me. I thought I was dead- then I wake up half buried in a sand-pit."_

"Nothing before you woke up? Anything… Unusual?"

 _"_ _Hard to say, sir."_ The grenadier shrugs. _"You coulda' gander that I was ah' bit preoccupied with not dyin'."_

"Can't blame you there." Hastis sighs. "Lemme take a look at your hands." He says, swinging his belt around so that the medical kit was in front. "Looks like those are pretty bad."

…

Hastis bit his upper lip as he used his knife to pick the flakweave out of the grenadiers hand. It had looked worse than it actually was, the heavy padding of the grenadiers gloves had fused to just the first few layers of skin, and they ripped off without much bleeding. Hastis doubted the man would ever recover most of his feeling in his fingers but it was a small price to pay considering he would still have his hands.

"See anything?" Hastis asked again. The grenadier was keeping watch, while Hastis worked on one hand he used the other to hold a scope to his eye, his facemask flipped up.

"Nothin' yet, sir." He says. "Might be a few Chimme's that we could see if they still ran."

"Gothic, please."

"Chimera's."

"You know how to drive one?" Hastis asks.

"Couldn't be that hard."

"You'd be wrong."

"Speakin' form experience, sir?"

"Yup."

"Shite."  
The grenadier suddenly lurches, pulling his hand away from Hastis so suddenly that he nearly cuts himself with his own blade.

"Throne, what are doing?"

"Quiet, sir." The grenadier snaps. He flips down the mask of his helmet and locks it into place. Hastis is on edge, he draws his revolver, and scans the area, wondering if the grenadier had seen an enemy.

The Grenadier depresses the vox stud on the side of his helmet, holding it down, searching for a signal of some sort. _"Sir, I might think I gots somethin'."_ He was quiet for a moment, and then he hit the vox stud on the side of his helmet again. _"Copy-copy, Desperadis copies,"_ The grenadier begins to pace about the top of the dune, his hand goes to his sidearm, he reloads the laspistol and flicks its activation stud. The weapon primes obediently before he returns it tits holster. _"Local unknown, no reference 'vailable, can confirm presence of ona' the 'quisitors retinue with me."_ Hastis brushes the dully aching remains of his right ear, sheared off by a heretics lasbolt, the wound was cauterized by the heat, and ached only faintly, but gone with it was his combead, he hated not being to listen in on whatever conversation the Grenadier was having. The Grenadier nods suddenly. " _A-firm; I'll takes a look about. Desperadis, out._ " Hastis folds his arms. "Who was that?" He asks. "One of your lieutenants? The Colonel?"

The grenadier shakes his head, "Sorry to disappoint. Just some non-com from second company, locked in their chimmey with their squad, looksies like they had a flip. Poor gits say they're 'bout half buried, sand started to leak in the moment they tried the hatches."

"Any hint on where the bastards are?"

"Not a squint, sir."

"Your helmet has the vox integrated, right?" Hastis asks.

"Aye, sir."

"It should be able to transmit and receive directionally, then."

"No-shite?"

"Let me see it." Hastis takes the helmet from the grenadier, the faceplate is scarred and worn, the blast resistant goggles are scratched and cracked in places, and the rebreather apparatus needed mending. The Vox unit in the ear panel was working just fine. Hastis wedges his knife through one of the slits, and toggles a switch; a light blinks yellow before he returns it to the grenadier. "Give it a three-sixty and tell me when you hear something."  
The grenadier does so, spinning slowly on the spot, hand up to the side of his helmet before he stops and points. "Ah, this way, sir." He says. "Mind un-fiddling me vox now?"

"I'll change it back when we find the sods. Lets just keep it that way so we know which direction to head in."

…

With the grenadiers Vox receiver guiding them forwards, fading in and out as they dialed in the direction of the transmitting chimera. It felt like a mile they had to walk before they came upon it. Half buried and flipped, wallowing in the sand with its tracks uselessly stuck up in the air was a Chimera. As they walk towards it, the grenadier hits his vox. "OI, Icon, you still with me? Can you get the wheelman to smidge the gas a second or something? I thinks we see you." Moments later, the tracks on the Chimera weakly shift, the engine growling like a wounded dog for a moment before sputtering out. "Yeah, we gocha. Hang toight, ladies, we'll dig your back hatch clear in a jiffy." The grenadier reaches back to his kit, he pulls free an entrenching spade with a collapsible handle. Like most pieces of imperial guard entrenching equipment, part of the head was serrated and honed to a fine edge, making it just as much a weapon as a utility device. He flicks it out and twirls it around his wrist, speaking of consummate familiarity. "Alrighty sir, does the most holy inquisition care to lend a humble, poor old and lowly guardsman a hand with this?" the Grenadier asks. Hastis can't hide his humorous smirk. "Yeah, yeah, just don't lump me in with the rest of those posh bastards. I was a guardsman too, you know." He pats the faded Aquilla tattoo on his neck and his old ident tags from his days in his regiment, a regiment that was betrayed. "Thought yah had the look of a mudrunner, what regiment?" The grenadier digs his spade into the sand at the back of the flipped Chimera. Hastis takes a more rudimentary approach; he kneels down and begins sifting the sand away from the hatch with his hands until the grenadier hands him a smaller back-up spade.

"Fendoran thirty second. Light reconnaissance infantry."

"Huh, never had the honor of meetin' 'em, sir."

Hastis grunted. "You wouldn't, sorry to say. We were out in the segmentum pacificus along the eastern spine."

"That's a damn long ways away," The grenadier whistles. "You ona of those regiments that gets pulled into the service of ah 'quisitor?" Hastis does not say anything for a second, mulling the answer over in his head. It's a touchy topic, one he does not like to linger on, but on the other hand, he did not want to say nothing.

"I guess you could say that we were, a bit more complicated than that, but…" Hastis shrugs.

"Eh, pardon if I'm prying, but I only saw you and the vox-fella with the 'quisitor. What happened to the rest of the regiment? Hard to believe that an inquisitor would go into a battle with just two blokes." He wasn't wrong, he wasn't wrong at all, but that was beginning to broach into a topic that was by far best left a secret.

"Gonna have to stop you there, friend." Hastis cracked a false grin. "Although, if you're so desperate for the answer, I could tell you,"

"You'd have to shoot me?"

"Got it in one."

"Shame, but fair enough."

Hastis was quiet for another moment more, until he broke the silence. He wasn't this talkative, usually.

"I will tell you this, if the Fendoran's ever met with you Calibrians, we'd get along right famously."

"Think so?"

"I know so. We're both born in the sand, if what I hear about your home is true."

"I see, well then, maybe one day we'll meet up."

"Yeah, one day." Hastis nods, he wishes it could be true. But there was no way for that to happen. After all, Fendora was now nothing more than a dead rock.

"Oi, I think we got it." The grenadier shovels away a few more scoops of sand, the back hatch of the chimera now fully exposed. The grenadier raps his spade against the door set into the ramp, and in a few moments it creaks open, bits of sand and grit clogging up the hinges.

"Throne-damned- _bastarding_ -" Slamming against the protesting hatch, a guardsman in proper flakvest and helmet, unlike that of the grenadier next to Hastis, forces the hatch open with another shove that pushes it the rest of the way. Spilling out into the small sandy depression that Hastis and the Grenadier made, a sergeant straightens up and blinks wearily at the light of the desert sun. Behind him the rest of the embarked and jostled squad pushes outwards, eager to be free of their metal confines, the crew of the chimera right behind them in lighter flackweave uniforms and caps.

The confusion is palpable as they take in the desert around them. Only hours, perhaps even minutes before, they were surrounded by a feudal city of brick and stone with cobbled streets and wooden cabin buildings, eclipsed by a singular great cathedral towering over it all. Now there was nothing but dust, sand, dead vegetation, and an all encompassing oppressive blue, cloudless sky and punishing yellow sun.

"What in the facking warp…" The sergeant swore, Hastis stepped forwards, intent on keeping them focused. He did not enjoy his position as an inquisitorial representative and member of a retinue, but it had its select few benefits. One of those, was the appearance of command authority, a thing that all guardsmen relied upon in desperate times.

"Lets not think about that at the moment. We can do that later." He stated. Hastis pulled out the Inquisitorial sigil that hung around his neck alongside the Aquila and his old tags. It was nothing like a true inquisitorial Rosette, but it was an authentic sigil that marked him as a member of the Ordos which usually held enough sway to get him through checkpoints or silence noisy individuals. "If you don't mind I'll be taking control of the current situation. First order of business would be some names and ranks, if you would be willing, sergeant?" It had the desired effect. The Sergeant had heard the mumblings of an inquisitor being present in the company, but hadn't had the chance to see, his company not being part of the first company elites. He snapped to attention, the rest of the squad hurriedly falling in behind him, the tankers just as quickly. The Grenadier followed suit, a bit more relaxed about it however, he saw the game that Hastis was playing. The sergeant named himself as Calio, his squad being part of the third platoon of the second company, the Chimera crew as an attached mechanized unit, lastly there was the Grenadier, giving a cheery salute and informing Hastis that he was 'the bloke that you pulled out of the frying pan back when the bastarding traitor marine showed himself,' and then he snapped off a crisp, military salute. Hastis returned it, "Major Hastis Asadarin of Fendoras Finest, seconded to the Inquisitions holy Ordos Hereticus, Lodge Militarum. Glad to have you all with me. First order is to reconnect and regroup. We've got no idea how many more of us are out there. Emperor willing, we're not alone." The sergeant nodded, turning about and immediately barking out orders, breaking his squad into fire-teams, and setting a search pattern. The grenadier nudged Hastis in the side, Hastis glanced over. "You really a major, sir?" Hastis nodded. "Major _General_ , actually. For about three days, didn't even have a chance to get my stars before the Inquisition came knocking." Hastis sighs. "A damn shame I only got to be one for a few days. Would've been great to have some captains I could push around."

…

Unsurprisingly, Hastis enjoyed deserts. They reminded him of Fendora and its endless golden sands and its grand underground cavern oceans. There was a majesty and beauty in the sand of a desert, in how the wind would blow patterns in the shifting sands, in how you could stand atop a dune and look for miles around in every direction and see clearly, the horizon a shifting, churning mirage of heat. The desert is cruel, and unforgiving, that is the most beautiful thing of all. He can almost hear the sounds of his home worlds music playing in the back of his mind as he and the grenadier crest another dune, looking out over the sand, eyes peeled and shaded as they search for shapes moving amongst the brown and orange pallet of the world.

This wasn't like any desert he had known. It more closely resembled a faded ruin swallowed by a granular sea, and a scrapyard grave world for fallen vehicles of war. Hastis had been to a world like this, a world swallowed by sand after the nefarious, scheming Eldar had seen to the destruction of the great permacrete barriers that had held by several oceans worth of sand from collapsing in on deeply entrenched canyons cities. It hadn't been a campaign of war; it had been a humanitarian rendering. His old regiment had been tasked with digging out and excavating the tips of hive spires. The further down they went, the more the buried city appeared to be a tomb. Sand pooled in the desiccated remains of the young and old, bodies dried and entombed in the sand, screaming mummified remains that stared pleadingly at the still living. The corpses had been buried under the ground, huddled in hab blocks shelters or in cramped spire lounges. Here, they littered the surface, half buried and curled in on themselves or splayed out in shambles.

"Ever see anything like this?" Hastis asked.

"Can't roightly say I ever have." The grenadier replied.

They were patrolling, Hastis, and his self-proclaimed 'escort'. The rescued squad and chimera crew had set up around their overturned APC.

"Mind if I ask 'bout your gun?" the grenadier asks, Hastis grinned, twirling out his revolver. "Ah, this old beauty?" He smiles. "Fendoran Hesti-HotShot revolver. An old piece, uses capsules instead of charge packs, and you only get six shots before you have to reload, but its guaranteed to punch a hole clean through carapace armor at a hundred meters, and open up power armor at thirty."

"Bleedin' warp," The grenadier whistles. "How you get your mitts on somthin' like that?"

"Remember what I said about being a Major-General?" Hastis quips. "Never got the uniform or the stripes, but they did let me have one of these."

"Mark your status?"

"It was either this or a battered old plasma pistol, and I like my fingers just the way they are, so, no thanks."

"Fair point, that.- Oi, look." Hastis looked closer, squinting his eyes and following the grenadiers pointed finger. "That's…" He began.

"Bastartden Centaur that's what it is." The grenadier nodded. "Fifth platoon if my eyes ain't goin', lets get a better look."

The light support vehicle was parked in the shadows of a sand-dune. It's dust-colored paint with various striations and scratches helping it to blend in to the best of its abilities. Hastis and the grenadier approached carefully. Keeping their eyes and ears peeled, already they had the misfortune of coming across the various other survivors of whatever happenstance event that sent here.

"Hold up,"

From behind the armored carrier a guardsman appears, dressed in the bulky clothing of an engineer, completed with a large duster under flak armor and interspersed with various odds-and-ends, tools for erecting trenches, mines, and hoops of barbed wire. He held in his hand a lasgun, pointed squarely at Hastis and his grenadier companion.

"No sudden moves, lets see those hands. Yeh?"

"Easy, friend, you's an engineer? I'm from first company, first platoon under Ol' Mad-an-Batty' Suliko, have been since he got his bars, after the shite-show on bleedin' Ochirus."

The Engineer holds his aim for a few seconds more, and then lowers his rifle and steps away from the centaur. "Yeh, that'll do." He sighs, relaxing. "It's clear, they's with us." He shouts. Several other guardsmen engineers pop up from behind the sand dune the centaur was sheltering in the shadow of. Their grimy, soot and grease stained faces were all at once relived, desperate, and anxious. Everything that Hastis himself was feeling but doing his level best to not show. "You aren't the first gits we ran across. Shitheads all around out here as well. A few of them tried to stick us when we came to," He shook his head. "Lost two lads before we put 'em down."

"Phask. We know how you feel, had our own run in awhile back." The grenadier grunts. "Good on you for being suspicious, can't trust anything." He shakes his head. "We got a rally just a march south from here, trying to regroup as much as possible, made contact with a squad from the second, poor bastards were flipped in a chimmey, had to dig 'em out. Mount up and we'll take you there."

"Sounds good. You heard the gents, lads. Pile in and lets get moving."

As it was, they weren't the first ones back to the Chimera, taking up positions around the overturned APC were several more guardsmen then what was first there to begin with. The Centaur rolled down the side of the dune and past the makeshift perimeter, sidling up next to the flipped chimera. The sergeant was there to greet them. "Sir," he saluted. "Found some more of us."

"They first company?" The grenadier asked. Calio shook his head. "Third company."

"The hell they doin here?""

"Corporal said that hey were cut off from their platoon- second platoon- and were trying to reconnect, when everything went to shit. They lost their sergeant from the looks of it, found them digging foxholes in the sand."

"Good job putting them to work, keep them busy. That's what we all need to do." Hastis said. "We managed to find these blokes, by the way," He turned and gestured to the engineers, some of them were already looking at the flipped APC, others were unloading the carrier, breaking out a pair of Heavy Bolters and filling sandbags, setting to work at making the area a good deal more defensible, another simply sat himself on the centaurs heavy stubber.

"Glad to see that the engineers are here with us." Calio sighed. The corporal of the Engineers nodded in return. "Always good to have you blokes around to tell us what end goes up."

…

"Any luck with the Chimera?" Hastis shouts out, the heavy APC was still upside-down for the most part, the engineers were doing their best to figure out a way to re-right it with their limited equipment but the outlook was dire- their centaur didn't have the pull or power necessary to turn it over, the shifting desert surface was all too coarse and fine to get any significant traction.

"Not a squint, sir." One of the engineers called back and shook their head, the duster wearing mechanic soldiers were either digging furiously around the Chimera, or taking up defensive stations, keeping lookout for any more potential attacks.

"Give it another go, and if that don't work, salvage what you can and prepare to move, we'll see if we can find any more of our boys."

"We got movement, my front!" One guardsmen shouts. Heads turn and the perimeter goes on alert, lasrifles pointing in every direction facing outwards.

"Wait- you're shittin' me." One of the guardsmen says, standing up from his dugout. "Is that one of the roaches?" he asks turning to he guardsman next to him.

Hastis walked up, revolver out and ready. "Something I should know?" He asked. The guardsmen turned and pointed off into the distance. One of them hands Hastis a pair of magnoculers.

Looking through the viewscope he could see it clearly. The loping bobbing stride of a sentinel reconnaissance vehicle. Hastis could tell that much from just observing its outline and its gait, but its profile was off, silhouetted against the backdrop of the horizon he couldn't rightly identify it as any particular pattern of Sentinel. He hands back the magnoculers. "Recognize it?" he asks. The guardsmen nod. "Looks like one of Bloodroaches.' Forward operators. They call in the Basilisks and earthshakers when the 76th is gearing up to put a hole in some bastards."

"Were they operating in the area?" Hastis asks.

"Apparently, looks like the Colonel thought we would need to throw some High-ex down if shit went any further south."

"Could've used those bastards awhile ago."

The driver wasn't alone, loping over the sand on wide spread metal toes, the scout walker had two black-clad Stormtroopers hanging off either side, holding onto the roll-cage of the cockpit as it ferried them over the sands. One of them wore the mark of a corporal, and Hastis remembered seeing that one before, the plasma gun held in one hand he was all too familiar with.

The makeshift perimeter that had been forming opened up to make way for the scout walker. Hastis had always admired Sentinels, he had a fascination with the striding grace that the armored walkers were capable of, the firepower they were able to bring to bare with the their long multi-jointed legs made for a superlative heavy weapons platform that was able to keep pace with infantry in any terrain. Their only drawback was their comparatively light armor and high profile. Back in his regiment, they made extensive use of sentinels, and their pilots had learned to 'hunch-walk' their vehicles, keeping the cockpit low and out of sight as they moved.

The two stormtroopers drop down from their makeshift ride, boots hitting the sand with an unnerving silence. Despite them being a further sign that others of the regiment had survived, the guardsmen still stood back and away from the regimental elites, their presence always a reviled thing. Hastis swallowed his pride, this wasn't the time for grudges. Already it was clear that the stormtroopers had seen combat- and recently. They were sporting wounds across their body, their armor was pitted and worn from continuous punishment. Hastis stepped forwards and fished out his Inquisitorial sigil, Stormtroopers were notorious for obeying a strict chain of command, only ever listening to those of the Ordos Tempestus, the Scholia Progenium, and of their parent regiments commanders. The two stormtroopers fixed their masked gaze on his sigil, their backs straightened and their boots clapped together in attention, weapons held ready. Hastis nodded, and put it back beneath his uniform.

He took a closer look at the damage these two elites had suffered. Autogun wounds and stubber fire, a couple of lasblasts, and the corporal with the plasmagun had half of their chest piece blown away from what must've been an Astartes grade bolter round and somehow had survived it to fire their weapon. He could only imagine that they were swimming in a cocktail of stimms at the moment. Stormtroopers could operate for hours on end even with crippling damage through the use of such stimulants, often times the exertion killing them in the end. These two would likely do just that. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder back to the Chimera that the Engineers were still working away at. "Go see the Corpsman and get yourself patched up, you won't be any good to me like this."

It wasn't in the nature of those trained by the Progenium to ever question an order, they didn't so much as glance back they way that had come over the sands before marching past him. The Pilot of the Sentinel had been sitting idly, awkwardly silent while Hastis had addressed the two Stormtroopers. Hastis turned his attentions to him now. "Mind getting down for a moment?" He called up to the cockpit. Peeking over the edge two orange lenses and a helmet looked down at him. He could hear the engine of the sentinel lurch, and its leg servos hiss as the cockpit of the war machine gently lowered itself to just above the sandy ground. The pilot of the walker opened the cockpit hatch and hopped out, the uniform was altogether several sizes too big for the boy, who couldn't be older than fifteen at the most. "M'lord?" The boy asked, pulling his goggles up onto his helmet. He had the same look of every guardsman who didn't have the luck of catching a bullet while they were still young, that subtle unhinged stare and flexing of the hands, always searching for the grip of a weapon. Hastis had it, as did every single veteran he had ever known. "You have a name, lad?" Hastis asked.

"Privet Ludos, M'lord." He said. "Fourth company Forward Observation specialist, Calibrian 76th, sentinel pilot."

Hastis narrowed his eyes, something wasn't quite right. It took him a moment to pin it down. "Ludos?" He said. The boy nodded. "Not Lud-o or Lud-a?" The boy nodded again.

"Just Ludos, M'lord."

"You can drop the M'lord, sir will do just fine."

"As you wish, sir."

"What's with your name?" Hastis asked. "something special about you? How come you don't have an O at the end?"

Ludos shook his head. "No, sir. Nothing special 'bout me, just a bastard, sir."

"A bastard? We're all bastards here in the guard. You mean an actual Bastard?"

"Yes, sir." Ludos fidgeted, lips tight and eyes like pinpricks of hate, he was running his thumbs over his fingers, curling them back into fists. "Just a bastard, sir."

Hastis decided it was prudent to change the subject he didn't need to go any further into tribal naming, there was a situation at hand. "give me a report, Privet."

The boy was quick to answer, far more eager of changing the subject. "I was with the rest of my Flank. We were following some of the Third's lads, directing the Wyverns and all that, then everything went… weird." His lips pursed, trying not to remember the nightmare that tore open the sky- the great hands of shadow that seemed to twist and reach down from that gazing abyss. "When I came too, me' walker was all topsy turvy, and I had to get her walkin' again. That was a hassle." He nodded. Hastis looked at his sentinel, it wasn't unheard of for skilled pilots to be able to right their walkers when they got knocked over, but for a kid to do it must've meant he was something special. "Then I just kept walkin' in every which way until I heard fightin'." Ludos pointed over to the two stormtroopers who were now under the bickersome care of the medic. "They's were getting' shot up by a bunch of nastiness, so I opened up with the stubbers and kilt' 'em all." Hastis briefly looked at the two lethal heavy stubbers mounted beneath the cockpit of the sentinel, they were belt fed things loaded with the standard heavy .80 caliber rounds that could shred through light armor, and against unarmored infantry …well.

"Toy-boys took some convincen' before they got on. After that I fired up the Auspex and started doing sweeps. Took a few, but then I picked up on a signal, and started walkin'."

"You must've heard us." Hastis guessed. "Do you think you can scan for any others?" The boy shrugged. "It'll take some tuning. This place is weird. Doesn't like me-scanners." Ludos looked over at the Chimera, staring in that absent-minded way that boys did sometimes. "Have something on your mind, lad?" Ludos nodded.

"Mind tellin' me?"

"I could fix that." He said, pointing. "Shouldn't be that hard to flip over."

"You wot?"

"Yup. Marcia can do it easy. I've done it before when the engies' bugger up and flip their tractors."

Hastis grunts and waves. "Feel free to have a go at it then," He says.

The boy smirks half-heartedly, clambering back into the cockpit of his machine he fires up the engine and the bent-legged walker stands. Ludos guided Marcia, his Sentinel, over to the turtled chimera. Hastis couldn't see what the boy was doing with the pedals and sticks of his machine but whatever he was doing it was making it move like a living thing. It shifted its weight onto its left leg began to squat down one legged, it hooked its right toe under the APC, and began to stand again. Servos hummed noisily as pistons strained against the weight of the APC. The engineers used the leverage that Ludos was giving them, their clamps growing taught as they gunned the salamanders engine and helped pull the Chimera the rest of the way over, back onto its tracks. The guardsmen erupted into cheering, clapping each other on the shoulder and back, several ran up and slapped the side of Ludos' sentinel.

The Engineers go to work on taking a closer look at the now righted Chimera. They crawl along its hull, inspecting the dusty brown colored armor for damage of significance. The lead engineer stands up on the top hatch and looks to Hastis with a thumbs up. "Just a couple bumps and dents, might have to tune a few finicky bits but we're all green across the board, sir."

"Finally some facking good news." Hastis sighed. "Get the vox up and running, I want it on at all times. See if we can't catch any transmissions."

 **…**

Pain is no stranger to you, but it has become tolerable. This tolerance is what lets you fight through the knife that is currently hilted in your gut, just below where your armor segments. You can feel the dull, ill-kept blade digging around your intestinal tract, ripping up your guts and tearing through your abdominal muscles. Your nerves chide and bicker of the sensation of it twisting in your guts with every movement, the damage it is inflicting- the damage it has inflicted- is likely severe. You need to pull it out, you can stop the bleeding- your body, twisted and changed, can easily withstand such a wound. You also need a weapon, and the knife in your gut, so helpfully provided by one of the wretched cultists, will suffice for the moment.

There is only just four of them left and you currently have one by the throat with your right hand, your left hand is preoccupied with restraining another. Two stub rounds punch into your chest plate, and your armor holds, but the impact is jarring enough to stagger you back. This has two consequences, you lose your grip on the second, but you pull back with your right hand and feel flesh and muscle give, as a sizeable section of a cultists throat is torn away. a round punches into your back, almost hitting your spine and penetrating the weaker armor there, it rips through your body and ricochets off the inside of your chest plate and is caught by a rib on its return trip, the damage is severe, but it does not hinder your operational capacity all too much, you have to act quickly, though. You are flanked on three sides, and need to eliminate the threats as soon as possible. A stitch of autogun rounds punches into your legs, the tingle of pain is back again, from all over your body, your wounds are mounting. You roll to your feet- time seems to hesitate and freeze as you open your eyes, and let the honed, analytical part of your brain take control- sucking in every single facet of information it can.

Four hostiles left, one out of action, two armed with autoguns, one without weapon- he's responsible for the knife in your gut. First hostile is to your front left- he's unloading his weapon, firing from the hip, magazine suggests thirty-rounds, he's expended ten if you have counted correctly. The one to your rear left, autogun, shortened barrel, drum magazine, fifty, or sixty rounds at most, he's aiming, a wire stock against his shoulder, he's left handed, not wearing a mask- the ejection port will likely hit him in the face if he fires- suggesting that it is not his native or preferred weapon. He will likely not fire on fully automatic, for if he does, the shells will blind him momentarily. The one to your immediate right, taller than you, bulkier, his legs are spread and you are crouched low. A plan is formulated in your mind; you put its probability of success at high.

Initiate.

You duck right, tucking and rolling, through the hostiles legs and springing to your feet at once. The screaming heretic firing from his hip stitches the cultist up with bullets; not caring at all as he empties his entire reserve of ammunition- the skull rune of the blood god on his forehead proves correct. You prop up the body in front of you, it shudders as rounds thunk into it, sounds of miniature hammerblows against fresh meat. You reach down, and pull the knife out of your gut, a six-inch blade, curved tip, three or so pounds with a paddle guard, You spin it once in your right hand and grab it by the blade. This will be a suboptimal throw, but you do not have much in the way of options at the moment. The click of a firing pin striking nothing signals your move. The other renegade opens up as the khornate reloads and tries to flank around you. The gunfire cuts off in a second, you step out form behind your improvised shield, the cultist has his eyes squinted shut, a smattering of smoking shells tumbling away from his face. You twist, and throw- the knife tumbles through the air, tip over hilt over head, it catches the cultist in the lower jaw- blade striking bone, but thrown with enough force that it punches through enough that the six-inch blade reaches the esophagus. An acceptable throw, with an imperfect weapon, it has bought you enough time. The cultist staggers back, drops his gun, and reaches for the embedded blade- spluttering gasps and bloody bubbles escaping from around the iron. You look at the khornate; he's slotting home a new magazine. You do not give him the chance. You duck forward towards him, boots pistoning into the sand, pushing you forwards, he's fast enough to swing his rifle at you, you easily dodge the strike, and you surge upwards, arm outstretched, palm open, you catch him under the jaw, tilting his head back you step one foot inside his forward leg, and you grasp control of his right arm with your left, you kick his leg out from under him, and your armored knee comes up over him and falls onto his chest- crushing his trachea as you twist his wrist beyond breaking point. You end it with a swift jab to the jugular, removing any possibility of him being able to breathe. You roll off of him, you police the magazine he was reaching for out of his waistband, and scoop up his rifle, you eject the spent magazine and slap home the new one, you rack the slide, chamber a round, and you march over to the still struggling heretic that you had downed with the knife that had so recently resided in your guts, a burst of rounds to his face, turning it to a pulpy mess see's him off. Then there is the first one, the one that had been grappling you, still somehow lives, twitching, gore weeping from the gaping hole in his throat that you had torn away with your hand. You finish him as well, and the gunshots echo over the desert plains.

Time to take stock.

The last memory you have is of being overwhelmed by a horde of screaming degenerates and reprobates. They dragged you to the ground, ripping at you with bleeding fingers, stabbing at you and striking you with improvised weapons and cutlery. Your helmet had been smashed to pieces, the red lenses cracking and shattering, blinding you as you were beaten bloody. Then you remember the sensation of falling- muffled screaming, cold light and searing shadow, then the rushing of air around you, followed by a bone jarring impact, the muffled whump's of bodies striking yielding sand. There was silence, stillness, you regulated your breathing, sat up, tore your ruined helmet free from your head, and searched for your weapons.

Then, your attention was refocused, as several figures lunged at you. You dealt with them, naturally.

Bodies are everywhere, laying all about you in the sandy flats, mangled and torn by your ministrations. You count around sixty plus, each one more diverse than the last, each one another lost soul, damned by the corruption of the ruinous powers. You slump to the ground, your breathing is running ragged, your mind is awash with stimulants and other unsavory narcotics, and each one tailored to reduce the side-affects of the other. They will filter out now that the triggering rush of adrenalight from your amplified, oversized adrenal glands is now abating. You shut your eyes, and sigh through grit teeth; you let your head fall back against the sandy ground. You should be up and alert, searching your surroundings and looking for more potential targets, more hostiles to kill, then locating your two primary weapons, and above all, looking for _her._ You don't do this. You give yourself a moment of respite even though such an action would have seen you flogged relentlessly, two hundred and fifty lashes by an electro-scourge and then an hour in the excrutiator while you recite the abjuration of hedonism. Any misspeak or mispronunciation of the hymns would call for another fifty lashes at the completion of the hour.

You honestly couldn't give less of a damn at the moment; you have two-dozen bullet wounds, half a dozen contusions, fifteen stab wounds, twice that number in lacerations, and half that number in burns. When you report to Viktor- should he still live- you will take the punishment he has. You just had perhaps one of the most brutal encounters in your history of service. Your armor is in tatters, your augments are barley keeping you alive, and your chemical reservoir is nearly depleted. You have more slaught in your veins than you do blood, and five-sixths of that blood is diluted with counteracting depressants that are in the process of keeping you sane enough to formulate a full, coherent sentence. You almost went for broke and attempted to utilize your 'Eucharist' augment, the twitching little box of absolution at the base of your brain stem. You run a gauntlet down your face, part of your scalp comes away, you peel it off and you hold bleeding flesh between your gauntleted fingers, staring at it balefully. You curse something fierce and lie still for a spell. All too soon, you clap your hands together now, and sit up. You've given yourself ten seconds to prepare for what followed. It was not going to be easy.

Your wounds take precedent now, but you cannot do anything extensive, you locate your emergency medical dispenser, a tube of stinking black paste similar to the material of a synth-glove that the agents of the assassinorum utilize. You extract a gobbet of it and smear it into the bleeding gut-wound, on contact with the fresh oozing blood it hardens and seals the wound, airtight and water proof, the bleeding is halted instantly. You cant reach the bullet wound on your back, unfortunately, but your bullet ridden legs are sealed with the remaining handful of paste that you possess, you've used a quarter of the tube, a bit more than what is comfortable, but you've stopped most of the bleeding, the external bleeding that is, the internal bleeding you are likely suffering will take another remedy. You cycle the medical emergency dispenser on your hip to the appropriate remedy, a coiled mechandrite attached to a small sphere no bigger than your eye rolls into the palm of your hand. You whisper the prayer of activation to it, reciting the litanies' of purification and restoration as you have been taught to do with painstaking attention to detail. The Micro Chirugen, another miracle of the adeptus Mechanicus and their machine-god is another piece of archeotech that has been granted to you, your position demanding that such extravagance be afforded to such a 'unique' servant. You hold it to the wound on your gut- sealed by the synthetic polymer, the string-thin mechadendrite uncoils, spooling out from within the sphere, and from its tip, the drill emerges. It burrows into the polymer, and into your guts. You can feel it, sifting around inside you, coiling and uncoiling, wrapping around ruined intestines, pulling your guts back together by force, more and more micro-mechadendrites unspool from the sphere, and burrow into you, you lose count of how many are now inside you, the pain you are experiencing is of an exquisite nature, piercing and needlelike, spearing into the base of your spine and up through your nerves, it is too intense for you to ignore, it pummels at your mind with urgent insistence. Your fingers curl and clench at the sand you now lie down upon, your face is locked into a stern rictus grin, teeth grinding, eyes twitching, threatening to roll back into your head as you let the machine do its work. It is almost too much for you. There are moments of suction inside you, and tugs of small monofilament wires weaving through your guts, there are moments of cold or warm numbness, the small syrets of numbing ampules being released locally finally making their effects known. The machine works blindingly fast, programed and bid to be direct and uncaring in its work- it's only duty to repair as quickly as possible, with no regard for the comfort of the patient, and it is true in this duty. You are being put back together on the inside, piece by piece, your guts are being sewn back together, and blood is being put back into your veins, filtered through and scrubbed clean.

You are fading in and out of consciousness, a few hits of frenzon keep you cognizant, but beyond that you are barley aware as you have your insides untangled. Of course, there is more metal than meat inside you, all the important bits taken up by gleaming steel, with just enough flesh left to give you the outwards appearance of human. The mechanicus has said over and over, that the flesh is weak while the machine is everlasting. Such is true, the omnisaiha having made it so, but of the everlasting metal that is your innards, it exists only to allow you to suffer longer. You lament it at times, but you remember of what is at stake, your little spark of hope. That thought alone gives you enough strength to withstand the last ministrations of the microchirogen. It's hateful spindle-limbs recede, and back into its container it goes. Small-arms fire, bullets and blades, they are not enough to stop you. Fifteen minutes more of this sensation, until you finally feel the micro mechadendrites retract out of your body, uncurling from around your intestines, and slipping back inside the small metallic sphere that so solemnly carries the sigil of the sacred cog. You can finally breathe now. The tingle that is called pain is still there, blindly insistent, a finger just behind your skull, pressing into your throat inch by feverish inch. It has no hold on you, and for that reason you are all the more empty, as for now, you feel more or less whole, its work done, your guts sewn up and your longevity of purpose restored. You stand now.

You roll your shoulders, crack your neck, and sit back up, fitting your armor back into place. Some plates hang loosely, some fit snugly, clamping back on and sealing you in. The servos hum with electrical promise, and you pick up the ruined remains of your helmet. Its faceplate is smashed in, its surface is scarred and pitted, the paint scoured away in places to reveal the dull grey undercoat of the thin ceramite shell. You hook it to your hip, you wont abandon it here. It doesn't take long to find your extraneous wargear. The power-falchion, the plasma pistol, both are not far from you, but they are in danger of being buried by the sand as the wind picks up, and dust begins to sweep over the ground. You drop the heretic rifle, discarding it and wiping your hands clean of its taint. You now close your fists around the grip of your sword and pistol. You meticulously go over their surface, examining them for any damage, and find nothing that you yourself cannot remedy. You sigh in relief as you sheathe and holster your implements of warfare. You have your weapons. Your body is patched back together, well enough for you to function and fight without risk of bleeding out or hemorrhaging.

You now can turn your attentions to the surroundings. You are indeed in a desert, the terrain is mostly flat for a few kilometers in every direction, in the distance you can make out a rising and falling sea of sand dunes, in another, the sand ends, and hard-packed and cracked earth takes over with vestiges of withered and dried desert shrubs. You are caught in between the beginnings of a savanna deadland, and a desert sea. In the great distance beyond, you can almost make out the waving shapes of mountains- a spot of green, even. The sky is blue, denoting the presence of an ocean of some sort, there are no clouds, so rain is not common here, you are breathing cleanly, the air is not toxic, or so you hope, just dry and arid. There is a sun, of course, harsh and yellow, but beyond that immediate information you cannot discern anything more.

The change in scenery from the warped ruins of the steps before a once loyal planets grand cathedral, to now the wastes of a desert is certainly unusual, and a matter of grave concern. Your priorities are not subject to uncovering the how and why of this happening, they instead lie with the procurement of your location, and the location of your charge. You tap your fingers against your thigh, there are pieces of masonry and basalt rock scattered about the area, entire sections of wall, wrecks of still smoldering machines, you even can see the mangled remains of traitor Astartes and the pulped ruined corpses of calibrian guardsmen. Your own Vox communication unit, residing in your helmet, is slagged, the auspex systems and clarion vox-network offline after your furious engagement. You step over to one of the corpses of the guardsmen, kneeling down you turn the body over, pits and pieces of meat spilling out through their torn open guts. You off-handedly mutter a prayer, bidding the Omnisaiha to take the soul of this fallen servant into his grace. You check for a vox-bead, unfortunately you come up with nothing, their com unit either having been lost or not their to begin with- the quartermaster clerks of the munitorum being ever fickle. The next body- a bisected torso of a sergeant proves to be more fortunate. Extracting from their ear a slightly bloodied vox-bead. You turn it over in your hands, carefully looking for any damage, You are lucky this time, it is both undamaged and powered, muttering prayers of thanks to the machine-god for his beneficence, and then you wipe it clean and fit it to your ear. You dial through the frequencies, you don't speak or hail, you instead listen patiently. You hear static, occasionally, you come across the whispers of a vox-ghost, an unfocussed signal, enough to tell you that there are others out there, but nothing clear as of yet.

You nearly give up, the guard-issue com-bead clearly insufficient, until something cuts through the static.

…

"Sir! Sir I'm getting something!"

Hastis sprinted over to the Chimera, nearly tripping as he did so. The Vox operator was hunched over in the back of the Transport, dialing through frequencies, his headset hooked up to the Chimeras own vox set. He was working at the dials, shifting knobs back and forth with gentle increments, trying to dial into the elusive frequency that the whisper of voices was speaking on.

"You have it?" Hastis asked breathlessly.

"Almost…!" The Coms operator slapped the side of the machine as the crackle of voices came through is earpiece. He plugged a second set into the control panel and handed it to Hastis.

 _"_ _-py- Sacrosanct Lancier Alpha Primus: Declaring emergency, repeat, Declaring Emergency. This is Sacrosanct Lancier Alpha Primus, declaring emergency, does anyone copy on this frequency?_

"Hello? We copy- we read you, please respond!" Hastis shouts into the vox set, the coms operator jerks back at the suddenness.

" _This is- Oi, we read you, identify yourself."_

"This is adjutant Hastis of Inquisitor Hyorks' retinue, I was with first Lieutenant Suliko."

 _"_ _Oh, I remember you now, yeah, you're that bald bastard with the lazy eye, yeah."_

"Jokes can wait until later, Lieutenant, though I appreciate the levity. Confirm your status, soldier."

 _"_ _Stormlance squadron has suffered critical damage across the unit, we've regrouped with infantry elements form third company second platoon and …specialist auxillia. We're all pretty banged up. What about your end, sir?"_

"Have a grenadier from first platoon with me, some engineers with a salamander from the first companies fifth, some grunts with a chimera from your second company, two facked-up stormtroopers and a Sentinel. No serious injuries aside from the toy-boys. Can you confirm your location? Landmarks, vantage points, anything?"

 _"_ _We're in a sort of savannah, we've got hard dirt underneath our treads, like the dry bed of an old oasis of some sort, some shrubs and tumblers, other than that we got dunes spreading out in behind us and flatlands to our frontal direction. Nothing to properly navigate by."_

"Are you mobile?"

 _"_ _Afraid not sir, we've got several tanks crippled and we're working on repairs, but a'lotta this damage is going to need the sacred enginseer to fix."_

"Understood, we'll come to you. Keep this line open, we're gonna have the Sentinel dial in the direction of your transmission and follow it back to you."

 _"_ _Roger that sir, Stormlance will continue to broadcast on this frequency."_

"We'll check back in on you every few mikes, the Emperor Protects, soldier, out."

 _"_ _Omnisaiha be praised, over and out."_

…

"Load the toy-soldiers in first, try not to shake them too much, I've got a feeling that we'll need them soon enough and I want them in working condition."

"Not sure there's gonna be enough room for us all, Sir." One of the guardsmen points out, slinging his lasgun over his shoulder. "Any volunteers for sitting up top?" There were only a few takers.

"Brass takes priority, don't want snipers taking out the brainy-lads, I'll backpack on the walker." Hastis orders. "Commander, what's the read on the multilaser?"

"She's locked and loaded, Sir."

"Keep her on a swivel, anything that isn't wearing an Aquila or a cog I want you to vaporize, understood?"

"Perfectly, Sir."

"Lets get a move on then, oi, grenadier, you're with me. We're taking the hot-seats."

…

The sentinel jolted him with every bounding step, Hastis was worried that either his belt or back would break before long. This wasn't the first time he's 'backpacked' a sentinel, clipping himself to the cockpit through his belt, resting a foot on the step, and hanging on for dear life, but it wasn't a thing he was keen on repeating.

"You holding up over there?" The grenadier shouts, the wind was starting to pick up, sand and grit swept over the desert, further aggravated by the tracks of the Chimera leading the procession ahead of them.

"I'm managing," Hastis shouts back, "How about you, soldier?"

"I think I'm gonna right vomit me guts out!" He laughed.

Hastis grinned. "Make sure you do it off the walker, the boy'll have your balls if you get your sick on his lady."

The grenadier cackled in reply.

"Oi!" It was Ludos, he took Hastis by the shoulder and shook him. "Message for you, sir. It's Stormlance, sir." The boy handed Hastis his set of headphones, they were far to small for Hastis to put on, he instead held one up to his ear and pulled the mic down to his mouth.

"Go ahead."

" _You reading me?"_

"Well enough, lad. Something the matter?"

" _We've got some good news, we're getting a lot of vox-traffic now, sir, nothing solid enough to patch through, but there's plenty of activity out there. Managed to make contact with Reaper Squadron and Challenger."_ Marcello's voice crackled through his vox bead, growing clearer by the minute.

"How are they holding?"

" _Confirmin' with them now, just wanted to let you know, we'll try and get them regrouped with us. Another thing, sir, we keep running into some serious interference but the vox is picking up sub-transmissions."_

"Sub-transmissions?"

 _"_ _Vox-Ghosts, false receptions or general transmissions, an open broadcast essentially, but our equipment is geared towards receiving it, so we only get the background shadow of it."_

"Can you tell if it's ours or another regiments?"

 _"_ _No idea sir, can't make out any transmit codes, ident cyphers, nothing solid, If they were another regiment they should have heard us over the command frequencies. It's possible that they aren't hearing us, damn vox waves are scattering all over the place, like they're bleeding into other frequencies."_

"That doesn't sound normal."

 _"_ _Throne, no, this shit doesn't happen planetside, only ever heard of vox-bleeding happening in void engagements around neutron stars, the radiation scrambles augur and auspex readouts, if it gets bad enough it can rip up vox transmissions. The sort of radiation shouldn't be able to pass through a planets gravity well."_

"Radiation?" Hastis repeated. "Should we be worried?"

 _"_ _If it was that kind of radiation then we'd already be dead. I don't think we have to worry... I think."_

"Just keep scanning and see if you can get through, we should be close by now."

 _"_ _I'll keep an eye out, Sir."_

…

Five minutes more of spine shaking riding later and Ludos told Hastis that they were almost on top of stormlances position. Hastis voxed the tank squadron, telling them that they were approaching and the makeshift convoy slowed to a crawl, engines winding down as they made there way over a rampart of sand and beheld stormlances crippled formation. They made their way into the ring of tanks. Hastis had the chance now to get a better look at the status of the armored squadron. Lieutenant Marcello had understated just how badly mauled his tanks were. There were gaping wounds in almost every one of them, lascannon scars, autocannon craters and great gouges from battlecannons and AT rockets. Several of the tanks had their sponsons ripped off of them, others had armor stripped off their side, revealing the suspension systems of their wheel wells, some even had the barrels of their main guns sheared off or twisted and blown out. This wasn't so much an armored squadron as it was a scrap collection with tracks.

Hastis unclipped himself from the scout sentinel and his boots met the ground. He picked out the lead tank, and walked over, seconds later, Marcello opened the top hatch of his tank and climbed out. Hastis grunted, the tank commander wasn't in good shape, he was unsteady as he climbed down. Hastis was quick to catch him before he fell.

"Throne alive, the hell happened to you?" Hastis muttered, Marcello regained his balance, his uniform was torn in places from fragments of shrapnel that had bounced around the inside of his tanks hull, and there was a bloody bandage around his head from a likely cracked skull. His eyes were hyper dilated, Hastis knew that it was a dose of slaught that were the only thing keeping him up and fighting.

"The job happened, Sir," The tank commander said. "Just another run through the thresher."

"You're concussed," Hastis stated. "Who's your second, we need to get you checked out."

Marcello shook his head, "I'm fine, I've had worse."

"To the warp with that talk," Hastis snapped. "Cut that sorta tough-shit act, you're dead on your feet."

"I'm fine, just let me-"

Marcello tried to pull away from Hastis, but the ex-guardsman's grip was firm. "Gonna need the doc over here." He called out, further restraining the tank commander. "Bastards all stimmed up."

The Chimera they had rode in on was already unloading its compliment of guardsmen, the engineers in their centaur were doing so as well, hauling out sandbags and blinds, the medic of the guardsman squad that had been so recently trapped inside their own Chimera poked their head out from the top hatch, a few seconds later they were trundling over, several guardsman with them- pressganged into assistance with a two-man stretcher.

"Bleedin' terra," the medic snapped. "the hell did he get up to? He try to soldier like a guardsman? A tank too borin' for him?" The Medic had the guardsmen set the stretcher down, the medic thumbed a tranquilizer for a moment as he stepped over to the tank commander. "Shite- he's outa it." He sighed, reaching up and pulling open Marcello's eye, checking his pupils before falling into routine of battlefield meatball surgery and triage. Hastis stepped back, arms folded, he knew well enough when his presence wasn't needed.

"How bad?" Hastis asked. The medic was pulling Marcello down onto the stretcher, only now having stopped his struggling.

"He's not in a good way at all, sir." The medic admitted. "Nothin' I can't fix, has a stuck lung, I think, some internal bleedin' and one hell of a concussion but I think I can rig somethin' up to help him pull through."

"Glad to hear it, you get him situated, I'm gonna have a check in with his second."

"As you order, sir."

Hastis turned around, looking back to the commander's tank- _Stalwart_ , as it was called. The top hatch swung open again, pulling herself out to sit on the rim of the hatch, a woman in a sweat drenched tank top looked down at him. Shaggy hair and dusky brown skin, she was well toned and muscular. "Oi," She called down to him. "Hear'd 'bout you." She said.

"You the second?"

"I'm the gunna'." She had a thick accent; her words almost slurred together, the Calibriain timbre made anyone who spoke it sound like they were in the midst of a mild concussion or seizure. "Close enough to a second, I suppose."

"You've got a name?" Hastis queried.

"Shikia, sir," She sighed. "Marcello doin' alright?" She asked. "Kept tryin' to get him to patch himself up, kept on tellin' me off."

"He'll live." Hastis said, lapsing into quiet before speaking up again. "How about you give me a sit-rep?"

The gunner, Shikia, laid out a damning report, giving him all the information of the armored squadron, and it was clear that the tanks of Stormlance were in a bad way, the only one that was in combat condition being, ' _Stalwart'_ and even then it was at dubious capacity at best. The engineers said that the track guards were prime to come apart before long and with Marcello injured and suffering from an extended concussion whilst bordering on the edge of an overdose command fell back to the gunner of _Stalwart_ who handed it off to the commander of _Carmine_.

It wasn't as grim as it sounded, all the tanks had most of their vital systems at a functional level, and further inspection saw that the majority of the Exterminator's _could_ be up and moving with limited track repair, the only one looking to need serious attention being Stormlance-04, _Providence_ , it's left track well had been cracked but not broken. The tank could still move but it had to be slow. The engineers were not willing to try and make any attempt at seeing if they could weld the break. They were concerned that doing so without knowing the proper litanies and prayers would anger _Providence's_ machine spirit. Hastis nearly had a fit when he heard this, he couldn't even begin to describe just how much he _hated_ the Cult Mechanicus and its clockwork dogma. There was no such thing as a machine spirit, there was no machine god or any such nonsense. There was only The Emperor, machines were the tools of men to be used and not revered as something worthy of worship. He'd never once prayed to his weapon, and never once had the weapons of his craft behaved any differently. He was about ready to chastise the engineers and the tank crew that were abiding by the machine cult when he stopped himself. It wasn't worth it, and it would only serve to cause unneeded stress. He'd already gotten the hint that the Calibrians were inducted into the Machine cult to a certain degree more than most guardsmen were, the level of efficiency they operated and maintenance their weapons and machines, the spotless cog-mechanicum sigils next to the Holy Aquilla inside transports, stamped on lasguns and knives, he wouldn't be ingratiating himself at all if he forced the subject.

It took some cajoling and the presentation of his credentials as an adjutant to an inquisitor, but he managed to get the tanks and their crews to coax their machines slowly into a defensive position. The engineers were not at all happy about it, but Hastis took their mind off their concern for the tanks by getting them to reinforce the scant perimeter. Sandbag positions and shallow pits in the hard packed ground began to be erected in a wide semicircle that was completed by the tanks. The guardsmen were pulling themselves together admirably under his command. Any worry or concern they had for their unexplainable location was put aside, breaking into fire teams the calibrian guardsmen were quick to take up positions facing outwards across the savannah plateau while the exterminators covered the sandy ridges behind them.

Hastis made sure that they had their little firebase locked down before he began to take stock of anything else, the main concern was the tanks, but there were scattered units of calibiran guardsmen present as well, members of the third company and several from the second, but it wasn't only guardsmen that were present.

Hastis was pacing, checking the fortifications, the engineers were damned good at their job. "Everything tip-top?" The grenadier, seemingly able to materialize at Hastis' side, clapped him on the back.

Hastis snorted a laugh. "As good as they can be." He said.

"Could be a helluva lot worse, roight?" The grenadier said. "could be up to our necks in more ov those spikey marine gits."

"Fair enough." Hastis grins. "But, we both know a surefire way to get rid of them, now, don't we?"

"Yeh, just gather up as much slip-sand and lay it in fronta' them and watch the bastards drown!"

"Damn straight, throne, might even get a medal."

The Grenadier said nothing, despite being so gregarious. Hastis quirked a brow and looked back at him. The grenadier had pulled off his helmet and was looking away uncomfortably.

"Something wrong?" Hastis asked, suddenly on edge.

"Nah," The grenadier shuffled. "Ow bout we go this way." He motioned back towards the tanks, the chimera crew was rolling out several heavy weapons, and the sentinel was crouched low, its pilot, ludos, tinkering at the chin-mounted stubbers.

Hastis glanced back, opposite the way the Grenadier was now walking. He saw it then.

He didn't know how he overlooked them, clad in a searing white coat with blue trim, an Aquila topped staff longer than they were tall held in diminutive hands. The deep hood of their cloak hid their face. As Hastis stared, the grenadier took Hastis by the shoulder- quickly, desperately pulling him around and away. It was too late. The figure turned and looked, Hastis opened his mouth to say something-

"Who-"

The words died on his lips as they turned to face him. For a moment he thought he saw their face underneath the hood, their eyes nothing more than pits in their skull, lidless voids that sucked him in. It was unnatural, it was unholy, and Hastis backed off at once. The grenadier wasn't far behind him and he was nursing a familiar cut on his forehead, Hastis turned swiftly and coughed, looking at the grenadier. "You should get that looked at." Hastis quickly advised.

"Later, it's not serious." The grenadier said. They stood silently, Hastis had a question that he was afraid to voice, and the Grenadier knew it, but didn't want to answer. There was a mutual feeling of dread, the idea that speaking of it would gain _its_ attention.

"I never got your name," Hastis said suddenly.

"Corporal Marko, Sir." He replied, the grenadier was stroking the barrel of his lasweapon, a type 67.

"I have to admit, it's a damn fine weapon." Hastis said, looking long and hard at the lasgun. There was a niggling sensation at the back of his head; he did his best to ignore it.

"It's the first companies workhorse," The grenadier turned his lasgun over, there was plenty of scrapes and signs of wear all across its frame, some parts were newer, having to be replaced frequently, such as the barrel, even so, it was lovingly tended, and the dual symbols of the Cog and the Aquila were polished. "She's been with me for four years, this one has. Got me out of more scraps than I can count."

"How's the emitter hold up in a desert anyway?" Hastis pulled out his revolver, the grip tingling in his palm. "This one has a tendency to overheat if I work the trigger too much."

"They manage pretty reliably, they only operate in the sixteen megathule range, that's pretty low power, even considering its rate of fire. You'd have to be _really_ holding the trigger down to get it to overheat. If you burn through three hundred rounds without letting up, then the focusing lenses will start to warp, five hundred for the barrel itself to suffer damage, but by that point your lenses is well and truly gakked anyways."

"How's it hold up when you want to break some skulls?" Hastis felt eyes on him, from seemingly every direction. He spun the chamber of his revolver to calm himself, Marko was fiddling with the strap of his lasgun, putting it over one shoulder and then the other. They were in a desert, yet it felt cold.

"C'mon, you feel how heavy it is?" Marko was bearing a false grin. "Sure, there's no stock but that don't matter much when you got the bayonet lug on."

"Might have to grab myself one if I can,"

You

"What?" Hastis asked. The corporal looked at him, confused. "What'd you just say?" Hastis asked again.

"Didn't say nothin,' sir." He replied.

You?

"There, you hear that?" Hastis insists. "Did you just-"

Me?

"Phask!" Hastis snaps, head snapping back as if hit with a physical blow- he staggers, nearly falls, reaching up and grabbing his temples as a physical force now rolls around him. Marko shouts something, a stammered swear- and then it relents ias quickly as the force had come.

"Throne!" he swears. Hastis breathes, whipping about, searching for whatever was just responsible.

Something grabs him by the pantleg. Before he can look, Marko shouts again. "Sir, I suggest caution, sir-"

YourOrders

It came up to just above his waist, and no further. A deep, all concealing hood falls well past their face, to the point where he doubts that they could see out fro underneath it, but, then again, these creatures had no need of the normal methods of human sight.

"Skin of the Emperor-" Hastis snaps back and away, the hood follows him- the pressure comes again, softer, lighter this time, not so oppressive as before.

PleaseOrderMe

"If you ignore it sir, it'll stop." Marko speaks up, several yards away, hastily beating his retreat, he spoke from what Hastis assumed to be experience. "Just don't…" He quiets down, voice becoming a background mutter as all sound seems to vacate the area, and Hastis is left looking at the movements of the grenadiers mouth but hearing no words.

PleasePleasePlease-

"Okay," Hastis breathes out, he swallows. "Okay, Just, just stop with the voices." Something like an emotion he didn't know he was feeling, swirled up around him like dust in the wind- an emotion, fear, happiness, everything of the sort, trickles into his mind from outside in. "So- What do you normally… do?" He asks, "You have a job, right, are you a line psyker, a telepath, a telekine-" It was a mistake to ask.

Thousands of voices talked at him, a hundred thousand more soon followed behind them, battering at his mental walls, he covered his ears like they would somehow help. Hastis shuts his eyes, grits his teeth and walls off his mind as best he can, calling back to those old Ordos Induction training regimes meant to test his mind and faith utterly.

"Stop that!" He shouts. "Stop doing that!" The assault ends, lances of words formed out of thought pull back sharply, almost frightened.

Stop?

"That!" He Hastis shouts again. "This damned mind-shite of yours, nock it off- It bleedin' hurts!"

He half expected that wordless voice from every direction to pummel him again, angry, indignant, instead the creature- the psyker –before him looked away, gripping its staff tight in its gloved hands before looking back and up at him- almost enough for him to see under the hood a bit more. "You mind telling me where your handlers are?" Hastis asked the psyker. It shook its head and shrugged.

NotHereStillLookingSearching.

Hastis twitched involuntarily, the voice in his head- he wouldn't get use to that, you never really get use to working in close concert with a psyker, even an experienced one like Hyork. "Just- Just keep an eye out, if you see anything happen just… tell me, but do it quietly, none of that mind-shouting." The voice doesn't come again, it simply nods.

It was a relief to get away from the unsettling presence of the Psyker, he tried not to let it show all that much but he could tell that Marko saw right through his façade. The Grenadier fell into step next to him.

Hastis shuts his eyes and rubs his temples, when he opens them again, the creature had backed off somewhat, but as he moved it moved to follow him, tail him like some sort of pet- that is, if a pet had a vortex bomb implanted in its brain. Hastis turns to Marko. "Never told me you had a regimental psyker, Marko." Hastis called back over his shoulder. The Grenadier didn't meet his gaze.

"We try not mention it, sir." Marko shrugged. "Bad luck otherwise." Back at waist level, the Psyker in question shifted uncomfortably.

"What grade is it?" He asked Marko, the grenadier shrugged again.

"You'd have to ask second company brass. It's their problem to deal with."

"That so.

"She's a part of second company?" Hastis asks covertly.  
"Aye," The grenadier nods. "Been part of the 2nd ever since the bloody red-cap took office over there."

"Come again?"

"2nd was just a standard line-company before the 76th came about, buncha new personnel joined up right after, a new platoon of fancy-pants stormtroopers from outside along with a Lord Commissar and psyker detachment." Hastis stopped and caught the grenadier by the arm, turning him back around to face him.

"A _Lord_ Commissar?" Hastis said. The Grenadier nodded. "You got to be fecking with my head. What in the warp is a Lord Commissar doing hanging around; with your second company no less? No offense but brass like that either is part of the general staff overseeing a campaign."

"No offense taken at all sir," Marko Nods. "I'ven't a faintest facking clue. Like I said, they just sorta rolled right into the mix of things and set up shop at the start of this whole crusade business." Marko glances around, eyes passing over the Psyker that stood off a little ways- staring at them. Marko fingered the grip of his lasgun, an Aquilla had been charged into the enamel there. "What's worse is that you can't even talk to the boys in the 2nd anymore. Damn red-cap has them on lock, a lashing to any of the blokes that step outa line. Lost a few good lads to a bolt round after some of us got fed up and wanted answers about the hush-hush."

"No-shit?" Hastis deadpanned. His temper was rising, again.

"No shit, sir." Marko sighs. Hastis scoffs miserably.

"Tell you what, If the big-hatted-bastard is still around and when cross paths I'll beat him over the head with this," He pulls out the adjutant's rosette afforded to him by Hyork. "and we'll have the whole story."

"You'd do that sir?"

Hastis nods. "I was a mudslinger like you, still am, just got some shiny shit to throw around now."

Marko grinned- wide and giddy. "You're a real mad bastard, you are, sir."

"Glad to be it."

Behind Hastis, the guardsman turned acolyte still reveling in some form of familiar companionship from days long thought past, the Psyker turns her head. Sightless sight stares off into the familiar middle distance. She tilts her head, her minds eye seeing past the dunes and sands and beholding a dark, tenebrous thing that amassed together like a doomsday plague ready to spill out over the horizon. Focusing her mind upon this destitute darkness it coalesces into a shadowy picture that is framed like a snapshot in her vision. She shudders a listless breath. An ocean of shadowbeasts, countless in number, pelting over the sand, on the hunt- hunting for them. Her boots, several sizes too large for her feet, cause her to wobble and shuffle in much of a manner similar to a toddler first learning to walk. Her motion does not go unnoticed, the bald-headed acolyte glances back and over at her, the grenadier scowls in distaste at her approach, she ignores the looks, there is a matter more pressing at hand. She grabs the acolyte by the hand- her mind pressing in around them both.

DangerAttack

Emotion and impression rolled together into thought, just like she was trained to do, made to do. The absolute clear conveyance of information through a telepathic means. What she had seen they now see and with it all the implications that follow it. She can feel their minds- trained, jaded, utilitarian things, they shift and lock, going from the temperate paranoia that all guardsmen live in, into the mechanical pragmatist mindset of a consummate soldier.

"What direction?" The Grenadier snaps, any discontent he had at her presence fades away as he flicks the activator stud on his lasgun into life.

HereThere

Like an overhead view, like looking down onto a hololith projection in a generals control room, the area above them zoomed out and depicted, the blockish shapes of the leman russes, the walls of sandbags, the palisade constructs held up with boards and tie-wires. Their focus is drawn outwards, into the planes, behind the dunes- an amorphous mass of shadow and red-light shifting around, rolling towards their meager firebase.

"What is _That_?" Hastis snaps accusatorily, clutching his head, the unfamiliar feeling of anther presence inside his own mind. The Psyker gave him but one response that seemed to summarize everything.

Hate.

He didn't have a chance to ask again before the howls began, and at that point, the answer didn't even matter. "All guardsmen! Prepare to repel incoming! Protect the armor!" Hastis swung out his revolver, spinning the cylinder and feeling it warm in his grip. The presence of the Psyker wasn't fading, if anything it was growing in strength. Marko rushed away from him, slamming his helmet back on and flipping the faceplate down he assumed a position that would place him directly in front of the encroaching howls.

It felt like his mind was being shifted- transported, rolled back to an earlier age, an age before his induction into the inquisition, like something was coming over him. Two engineers were hauling a tripod and heavy weapon out from the centaur, the sand made carrying something like it difficult. Hastis ran past them. "Ready that stubber and get ready to crank out the lead you bastards! Move!" He was whipping out orders left and right, directing the guardsmen into defensive positions behind the sandbags with raised heavy weapons forming up the center of the ring. He didn't have much time, Running over to the light carrier, Hastis vaulted up into the armored machine, his hands closing over the familiar grip of a heavy stubber. "Stormlance on my command; preform suppressing action upon crest at two-ten on my mark!"

The tingling sensation about the back of his brain, he could recall having this feeling before. More screeches and howls, closer now, moments away. He shut out all thought and racked the slide of the stubber.

"Prepare to fire!" he yelled. "For the Emperor!"

"For the Emperor!"

" ** _Louder_** you dogs! Like you mean it!"

 _"_ _For the Emperor!"_

 _"_ Blessed on the sands!"

Now

"Commence firing!"

 _Carmine_ was the first to open up, her turret aimed and sighted in exactly where Hastis had wanted it. The twin autocannons of the exterminator pattern leman russ flashed alight and echoed their eruption across the sands as high-explosive fragmentation shells ripped into the crest of the dunes just forwards of where Marko was situated at the base of. Sand was blown in every direction, the entire crest of the dune evaporating into million particulates of dust, furthermore, the sudden disturbance also meant that any footing was lost _underneath heavy ceramite boots._ Hastis blinked, eyes nearly hazing over, as he sighted in on whatever was now rolling down the embankment. Trying to right themselves were some sort of creatures, quadruped in form but lupine in nature, black and brown tufts of fur with a bleach white boney carapace, legs ending in oversized claws that seemed to erupt from forepaws. The Guardsmen didn't hesitate, volleys of weapons discharge ripping into black flesh and bursting apart at nearly point blank range, five of the creatures all together were reduced into a steaming mass of ruined flesh and muscle. There would be more to come. Howls in the distance rang out- countless voices conjoining together. "Second wave! Fire discretion lifted!" Hastis called out. The next wave fell to the boy and his mechanical walker. The Guardsmen braced for the next contact- ears keen on the sounds of paws pattering over sand- just behind the dune they sat at the base of. From the top the first lupine shape crested- almost pausing for a moment to look down at the fleshling things beneath it. Just as another crested the ridge next to it, its face cape apart as a string of high-velocity rounds tore through it- a steady line of fire dragging over the ride as Ludos ventilated the dunes with his scout walkers twin heavy stubbers, massive lead bullets that flew over the top of the dune and into cresting creatures with punitive consequence. Hastis blinked, he felt eyes on him, down, by the centaur he was mounted in, the diminutive psyker was looking up at him.

ThereNow

Another vision crashing over his eyes, eclipsing his sight for a moment- but he reacted. "Contact two-oh-five!" Hastis swung the heavy stubber around without questioning. Shrieking howls, they erupted from behind the dunes and into the flats, charging madly, Hastis depressed the studs, and lit into them. Following the blinking line of tracers erupting out of the heavy stubber, the multilaser of the Chimera swiveled around, and spears of heat zapped into a mass of creatures that seemed to boil out from the sand of the desert itself. Spears of light and heavy lead played across them as they tried to fan out and disperse, the top hatch _Lavender_ was open, the gunner gripping the handles of the mounted heavy stubber, not willing to waste precious autocannon ammunition on these beasts. There was no break in the wave this time- Over the ridge and out from the dips in the flatlands, they were emerging. Lasfire shifted around, focusing in on these hotspots , the fortified position of Hastis and his guardsmen in a full defensive action.

DangerHere

Back along the ridgeline, from behind, from above where stormlance was hull-down, only exposing their turrets out and over the ridge. He blinked away the false image and swung the stubber around to face the new threat. He racked the slide and slotted in a fresh belt. He noticed something, the creatures, they had red eyes. _Red lenses, snarling grill faces locked in a grimace of rage-_

"From behind! Stormlance redirect fire to new vector! Guardsmen, to your front! Ludos, check their advance from nine-six, fire at will! We will hold this city!" Out of the sands, a shifting outline of white and brown that was flecked with lines of red _and ruby lenses_. Hastis squeezed the grip of the stubber, pulling the studs back and letting rip with a long continuous stream of suppressive fire. He chewed them up and spit them back out, shell casings clattered around his feet, the barrel grew hot and the corpses turned from bodies into meat. A new belt, he threw open the breach, they were almost upon him, _descending from the sky in their big metal crates, pounding into the ground right on top of them, falling from orbit like punitive gods-_

FromHere _Now_ -

He feels his body become not his own as his head jerks around and the turret swings about to face a new direction. The beasts are coming from all around them, every guardsmen firing into a mass of fangs and fur. Hastis lets the stubber rock in its cradle as chunks of beast are thrown about, knocked away from the ridgeline they were set to swarm over by the lead stream he intercepted them with, Something in his brain pops, like a nerve that had been severed, something leaks from the corner of ne eye-

DangerAbove!

He draws his revolver without meaning too, he aims upwards-

A black shadow falling across him, a silent reaper filled with cold fury, great feathered wings and claws as thick as his wrist and as long as his forearm, tapering into a fanatical point, stretched out to run him through, guided in by two ruby eyes-

- _Its cruel lenses were a darker hue than that of the red innocence that splattered across its armor from its wanton slaughter, but it was not by any degree more vivid than the brilliant flashes of red lasfire that rippled over its ceramite form. Its chainsword howls violence as it rips its length through a score of bodies, not so much cutting through as it was cleaving, the sheer force behind each blow pulped the mortal human it was used against. Hastis was frozen stiff, his hands shook as he aimed down the length of the barrel, trying to track the superhuman monster that was in the process of reducing his men, his comrades, his brothers- into nothing more than unsightly smears. Even as broke Cherui in half with a casual backhanded strike, it was staring at him- challenging him- its crimson lenses focused solely on Hastis the entire time- as if daring him to shoot, daring him to try and stop it. Draski's mangled remains landed before him, he flinched, yanking the trigger, not pulling, the laser beam cut across the pauldron of the superhuman warrior, scouring away a seal, burning a trench across the stark white emblem of a winged sw-_

His revolver blows several holes the size of a mans head in the wings of the creature, the flying monstrosity continues its dive, bent on ripping him apart with its hell-talons. Hastis tries to focus on its head, tries to aim, his hands shake, lost in the grip of the past as-

NoFearPowerNow

-lightning rips up from below; a pillar of raw electric power tasting of sulfur and iron rises up to meet the descent of the beast from the sky. Hastis cant bring himself to look away. Its flesh is not simply charred away, but atomized in a single great flash as the roiling electricity envelopes the body of the beast, and from the core like electrowhips, great tendrils of roiling, contained lightning scour through the air with malignant intent. Arcing over the ground and over the heads of guardsmen they punch into the writhing mass of black and red creatures that were intent on reaching the beating hearts of the humans that thought to deny them. Much in how a sewing needle is guided through felt, the lightning worms its way through the massed creatures one after the other, flesh is seared and made into charcoal- the bodies collapse or break apart as warp power rolls through them, in mere seconds an entire wave of horrible monstrosities is reduced to ash. At the center of it, the cause of it, the youngling psyker waves her staff above her head like a divining rod, slow circular motions that seemed to shift the current of power glutted on the ash-corpse remnants of the great winged beast. Almost as swift as it had started it ends just as fast, the bolts of electrical death peter out from the source, and clumps of soot fall upon Hastis as the thing held above him in electrical levitation is left to scatter over the winds, whatever beast horde this had been ripped apart from a scourge of electric wrath. He blinks away the shadows hazing his eyes and now looks to the Psyker- the creature that held such phenomenal power. It's hood is pulled tight over its head, some sort of shuddering overtaking its form as Hastis regards it. He didn't know what it had done exactly, but he had heard its mind voice- the clarity of thought it had given to him, the flow of the fight, all imprinted into his head without delay, and the last finishing bolt of lightning had seen this swarm off.

There was also, of course, those memories that it had dredged to the surface…

Hastis shook his head- dizzy, unsteady, a side effect? He cleared his thoughts. "Hey, Bolt-magnet." He said. The hood turned in his direction, jerking in alarm almost. Hastis nods to the sea of burnt ash around the firebase. "That was some good work you did just then." There is a tension in the shoulders of the Psyker that seems to abate almost at once, something like levity almost pointing the corners of its lips- the only things visible under that hood. Hastis cracks a grin as well- why is his head so light all of a sudden?

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words can escape his throat- some sort of pressure, some sort of guiding hand that had manipulated his thoughts only now relenting, supposedly gone but then- A splitting javelin of pain rolling up his spine and curling over into the front of his skull, right behind his eyes. He seizes up, curling forwards, covering his face with his hands and feeling something wet as he slips backwards against the turret ring. He looks at the wetness now leaking over his fingers.

Red.

Red like a Ruby.

…

You are still young, you have much to learn but you know you have power. You can count on one hand the number of times you had the chance to use them without fear of remit, but the scars over your body count how many times you've been bidden to use them, your power harnessed to the will of others. The red raw skin around your neck, the chaff scars of the chains, the bite of the whip- these are things familiar to you. Pride is not, pride is something different and meant for the accomplishment of others. Never before had a compliment, a 'pat on the back' been directed towards you, at most you were given silence, a confirmation of your duties preformed to the letter and nothing more- anything more always being the bite of the whip or the scourge of pain lashing up your neck.

Right now, you are staring up at the man who had made it known that such things as kindness or commendation were possible for a creature like you. The feeling of accomplishment lasts for but a single second, as the man is now slumped over in the turret ring of the Centaur. Alarm radiates through you, his life-force, the spark of his soul still burns but it flickers. You look around, desperately, you don't know what to do, all the while a brush of seconds pass without further attacks and hesitantly, the guardsmen start calling out by squads and fire teams.

"That's it sir, seems clear for the moment." The one same grenadier jogs up to the side of the centaur. "Sir, sir?" He climbs up onto the Chimera, grabbing Hastis by the shoulder and shaking him. "Sir-" The grenadier stops at the river of red leaking from the acolytes nose and eyes, he hooks his hands under Hastis' arms and bodily hauls him out of the turret ring, "I need a fethin' Medicae! Soldier down!" He fervently shouts, and at once two guardsmen break off from the ring of sandbags and come sprinting back, one rips open the caduceus marked bag at his hip as he runs. You stumble back, before they can shove you out of the way, urgency overriding their natural aversion of you.

The grenadier lays Hastis flat, he uses his thigh to prop his head up in such a way that the blood doesn't pool and is allowed to flow out. The Medics take a moment to preform triage, one work sin silence they other mutters benedictions and prayer, tools, glinting silver things and drawn out, canisters of chemicals and rolls of gauze. You have to look away when a thin blade is drawn over the skin just above the Acolytes left eye and peeled back with a pair of tongs. You shut your eyes and hold in your bile. While not a stranger to death and violence- your mind being more attuned to it then most- it was none the less unpleasant.

"…bleeding from increased intracranial pressure, likely caused by a stroke. I need to preform a craniotomy- bonedrill, now." Your heart lurches with your stomach at the sound of a small electric keening that seems to only increase in pitch as the sound of surgical metal is matched against bone. You steels yourself and glances back behind you, and wish you hadn't. The grenadier, the one with the bit of ceramite lodged in his forehead is staring up at you, suspicious but afraid to speak out. You almost says something but instead hurriedly makes your exit, hands wringing against the metal of your staff.

You had done what you had to do in order to protect them. You tell yourself that again and again. You simply did what you always had been made to do. You search for the enemy and you tell the master where they are. You predict their movements and tell all, and when that doesn't work, you take the power you hold inside and you let it manifest and destroy. You didn't know that he couldn't handle it, couldn't handle the information you were giving him. You didn't mean to hurt him. You are a good girl. You had to be, otherwise…

The bits of metal, the old scars and remnants of the dark holds of the ship, the things that were done to you, the things you were made to do. Your hand passes lightly over raised bumpy scar tissue.

More commotion behind You bids you to turn around, a stretcher was brought out, they were loading the Acolyte up into the Chiemra- where the two Stormtroopers were recovering. But it wasn't this that was a cause for commotion, grinding over the sand with tracks chewing up the bodies of the creatures that felt like hate itself, was all too familiar a sight.

A set of blackened Chimeras, each one outfitted and upgraded far beyond it's humble origins, the powerful plasma cannon that took the place of an ordinary multilaser or autocannon turret was but one of the most obvious modifications. Your heart sinks, the tremors ratchet up a degree, and that familiar fear rampaged in the back of your mind with the thought of the countless consequences that will likely befall you for unregulated use of your powers outside of his jurisdiction. Guardsmen took quick notice and either backed away to make room or rushed over to pull down the sandbag palisades that were blocking their entrance.

You don't know if they had come because of you or because they had traced the vox-units of the two Stormtroopers already present, either way, the effect is much the same. The lead vehical pulls into the center of the firebase and grinds to a halt just away from you, almost uncaring of the guardsmen that have to sprint out of the way of the Chimera. The ramp drops, and as always, he is the first off. The peaked crimson cap with gold and black embroidery, the winged silver skull medallion, the crimson sash and greatcoat. Tall black boots march down the ramp and seem to actively punish the sand it steps onto. The man adjusts the glove that covered a false metal hand and let it rest just over the hilt of a strangely utilitarian power sword unbefitting one of his office. The Guardsmen present, the same few that had seemd almost jovial, almost happy in the presence of the Guardsman Acolyte, now took on a silent tone, heads low, shuffling to set positions behind the sandbags, changing the barrels of various mounted weapons or re adjusting the various embattlements of sandbags. Whatever it took to duck the Lord Commissars iron gaze. You cannot escape it, because it falls squarly onto you. Two squads worth of stormtroopers file out of the Chimera's, hotshot lasguns already primed they scan the surrounding desert in search of targets that have the good sense not to materialize. Two approach you directly under the supervision of the lord commissar, his demeanor telling you everything that you needed to know of just what exactly he thought of the situation, what he thought of you in particular.

The metal bites into your neck, reopening those old scars that never heal, the psi dampener nearly suck the strength from your limbs and you lean heavily on your staff to support yourself. You'll need more than it alone now, the price of dereliction of duty, that duty is always being within ten meters of the Lord Commissar at any given time. The mere fact that a warpstorm had separated you is no excuse and the lord commissar was the harshest of disciplinarions. The punishment for breaking the code? Lashes. Lots of them.

The Whip is brought out, Your cloak is removed, the paltry overskirt and leggings removed, and the hateful scars across your back now exposed once more for yet another beating. The sound of leather being tightened as the whip master- one of the stormtroopers- begins the familiar routine.

Humiliation, pain, misery. These are your oldest of friends.

The crack of the whip, it heats the air. The pain covers your back. It repeats, just like so many times before.

...

 **A/N: No, really, hear me out on this. I wanna know if RObby G bangin' Celestine counts as incest, and also, Celestine is proportioned like a normal human woman, right? so If RObby G has a Primarch Sized Magma Cannon would that even fit? Or is that just with Vulkan, you know, because he has a Big Black Carapace. Oh, yeah, what would the kid even look like? I mean a baby of a primarch and living saint, that shit would be dope, yo, I mean, none of this is likely to happne, because Girlyman is already getting married to his hot xenos girlfriend, but the what if still stands.**

 **Robby G is a Xenos Fucker that cucked his entire legion.**


End file.
